The Price of Gold
by No.13
Summary: With the dragon-sickness clouding his mind, Thorin locks Bilbo in a chest before the battle. He survives to rue his actions - but making amends is not easy, when political ambitions complicate the already tense situation.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Originally written for a prompt on the kink meme, so I don't actually own the idea, either.

**Warnings:** Please take care – there's some violence, blood and general unpleasantness. Also, the imagery of being locked in a chest may be triggering.

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**I**

"Prepare for battle," Thorin tells his company, and they disperse. Down below, Bilbo can hear hooves galloping away, even as the sensation of battle grows near. His head is spinning, and the notion of an army of orcs and goblins approaching seems almost surreal – since there are so many other feelings tearing at his heart.

Thorin's gaze falls upon him and the fury has not abated.

Instead, it had turned into cold hatred. For a moment Bilbo thinks Thorin is going to toss him from the wall – because now that there is a battle approaching, the dwarves have no need for a burden. And Gandalf has left with the men and elves to prepare for their own part in the fight.

His heart stops when Thorin pulls him up by his arm. The grip is hard, and hurts, and Bilbo can't quite stop a pained gasp from escaping. Thorin pays it no mind, and proceeds to drag him off, back into the mountain. Bilbo can only stumble along – he almost has to run to keep up, and his head aches, and Thorin's grip forces his arm into an odd position.

He hears footsteps and the clatter of metal nearby, but Bilbo catches no sight of the other dwarves. Erebor is still too unfamiliar for him to recognize where Thorin is bringing him, though once the he spies the golden coins on the floor he realizes they are in the treasury.

Bilbo bites his tongue – Thorin's silence is oppressive, full or anger, and he dares not draw his attention further (even though the grip on his arm hurts). From the corner of his eye he sees Thorin heading toward a wooden chest – then his foot catches on something, he stumbles, and only the grip Thorin has on his arm keeps him from falling.

The dwarf doesn't stop or slow, instead he drags Bilbo along until the hobbit manages to get his feet under him again. His knees are bruised by that time, and he thinks his ankle might be bleeding, but bites his lip.

Then they are next to the chest, which is really more of a rectangular crate (as far as Bilbo can tell from the corner of his eye), and then the world tilts abruptly. Bilbo belatedly notices Thorin has pushed him, he's falling, and then his head slams against something hard, and his vision fades out.

Bilbo has barely caught his bearings, when the lid slams shut. His vision flickers, pain traverses his spine, and his left arm is bent at an uncomfortable angle behind his back. For a split moment he lingers on the brink of unconsciousness – then he slams back into himself, and pain explodes in his shoulder and the back of his head.

He scrabbles to get his arm out from under his back – it hurts too much to breathe, and his spine is overstretched, and his right elbow slams against firm wood. There's wood against the top of his head and the soles of his feet, too, but he doesn't care. He needs to get his arm moved, now. There's wood on his left, too, and he can't move as he wants to, but he squirms (because he can't stand to be like this), and eventually his arm comes free.

He may have screamed, and there's some noise outside, but Bilbo doesn't care, nor can he place it. His arm burns, and his shoulder is probably dislocated. He is gasping for air when his vision stops flickering between white and black, and he realizes he's in total blackness.

The events come together.

Outside, footsteps move away from him. Wood to all his sides – he saw the chest from the corner of his eye, just moments ago, when Thorin had his arm in a painful grip. He can't …

Bilbo instinctively pushes against the lid with his good arm – he has to stretch it completely, but the lid won't budge. And the footsteps grow distant.

"Thorin!" he screams, and doesn't care if the desperation in his voice is obvious, "Thorin! Wait! Don't go! I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry! Let me out! Please!"

The footsteps don't stop, nor do they slow down.

"Please!" Bilbo screams again, and this time his voice breaks. He doesn't even realize he's pounding against the lid, and that tears stream down his cheeks.

"Please," he sobs, and it's too choked to be heard.

Tthe door slams shut. Something shifts – Bilbo hears it; the bright clinging and clattering of golden coins, jewels and gemstones. But it's not quite sound, it's loud, louder, and suddenly Bilbo understands that the balance of the entire treasure hill has been upset.

Then the chest begins to tremble and his heart stops.

_Nononono_, Bilbo thinks, not this, too. Not – he can't finish the thought, because the box tilts – he only feels it, and it's disturbing, because the blackness doesn't change at all. Then the ground rumbles, and the chest rolls over. Bilbo barely manages to get an arm over his face (it's too tight), and then the wooden floor (side? He doesn't know) of the chest slams against his ribcage, elbow, knees and shoulder – and the pain makes his vision go white.

He doesn't know how long it took, or when the box stopped rolling.

Bilbo opens his eyes, though all he sees is sheer darkness. Tentatively, he draws a deep breath – his entire body aches, there's a fierce ache in his shoulder, and Bilbo is careful to lie perfectly still. At least nothing feels broken.

The relief is short-lived, because he is still trapped in a chest. One that now is probably buried under piles of gold, too.

* * *

Nightfall brings bats and orcs and goblins. The battle is fierce; and even the united forces of men, elves and dwarves struggle. Thorin is in the thick of the fighting. He barely takes notice of the companions at his side.

His enemy tonight is Azog.

Thorin then does not pay much attention to the turn of the battle, or how hard-pressed all are to defend their positions. Instead of staying, he charges ahead.

* * *

Time is impossible to measure in the absolute darkness of the chest. Already, Bilbo feels as if he had spent an eternity inside; the wood uncomfortably, digging into his back. He tries to stay in one position for longer, but once he settles, and the rustle of clothes fades, he only hears his breathing and his own heartbeat (both too fast).

Moving is painful, but at least the pain distracts his thoughts.

Bilbo fears to let them wander. Already the darkness lasts heavy on him. He doesn't think Thorin will leave him here – even if only to publicly execute him for his betrayal – but the longer he lies still, the more precarious this assumption grows.

There's a battle raging outside.

Or is it? Bilbo doesn't hear a thing. Perhaps Erebor's walls are too thick for sound to penetrate. Perhaps this chest is soundproof? Perhaps the battle has not yet started, and only minutes have passed since Thorin left him here – or perhaps the battle is already over?

Bilbo's stomach churns, and something in his chest clenches.

Perhaps all are dead. Kili, with his bright smile, Ori, with his books, Bofur, and his jokes – maybe they all have perished, together with Bard and Thranduil and Gandalf. His mind conjures an image of the slopes of Erebor covered in blood and broken bodies.

And nobody to remember one hobbit locked in a chest.

The idea steals Bilbo's breath, and he banishes it.

No, at least some ought to have survived. And Thorin, too, because he is King, and Kings are protected, even if they seek out the front lines. Maybe they've already won, and are now celebrating. This brings almost a smile to Bilbo's lips (and calms his aching heart) – he can see them toasting, drinking, singing – maybe a bit worse for wear, but nonetheless alive and victorious.

They'll come for him in time, then.

Most likely, however, the more rational part of Bilbo's mind cautions, is that the battle is far from over. He has no idea of what time it is, can't tell – he wishes it was close to morning, but in all honesty, it may not yet be nightfall.

* * *

The tide of the battle only changes once Beorn and the eagles arrive. Had they been a second later, Thorin's life would have been ended by a luck spear, thrown by a goblin. Instead, it misses and Thorin takes off Azog's head.

He sinks to his knees, then, exhausted rather than accomplished. It feels like a burden lifted, something in his chest shifts – though he can't linger on it. Around him, the battle continues, and he spies Fili and Kili, back to back, and alone among a sea of enemies.

* * *

It's been too long, Bilbo thinks, too long.

It feels as if the chest is shrinking, and he wishes he could stretch his limbs. Instead, there's hard, unforgiving wood in all directions. His back aches, but he can't breathe on his stomach, and his shoulder hurts too much to lie on his side.

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but it must have been days, now. Sleep won't come, only fear and panic. The air is stuffy in this chest, and maybe he'll suffocate – though he should already have, by then.

Bilbo's heart gives a painful jolt, as even this fate is denied to him.

He starts to think he has been forgotten about. Or maybe Thorin is too hurt to remember right now. He doesn't want to think that he has been left here deliberately.

Something hot burns in his eyes.

He's thirsty, too. Before long, he'll die of thirst. Not hunger – Bilbo has heard tales of starvation, and knows it takes very, very long. And he doesn't feel hungry, at all. He'd skip food for a month if somebody would let him out of this … coffin, now.

A shaky breath leaves him, and Bilbo uses his good arm to wipe the tears away. It sends a spark of pain through his other shoulder and the contact between his hand and his face anchors him, at least a little.

Outside, the silence lingers.

"Hello!" Bilbo calls out spontaneously. Has been doing this, for a while, now. Perhaps some passerby might hear him – though none has, yet.

Perhaps all are dead. Perhaps nobody will come for him.

Or they won and Thorin decided this to be his fate. To die in this chest – alone, in utter darkness.

Bilbo's heart clenches and the pain is physical. He wants to curl up, but can't, and neither can he stop the tears. He doesn't want to die here – not so alone, not without at least a chance of explaining his actions or apologizing. Perhaps Thorin will never forgive him, but he hopes that at least the others will understand. He won't even ask for their forgiveness.

He'd just like a chance to say goodbye.

(And if he's honest, he doesn't want to die at all. He wants to go home; home to his books and pillows and quilts. Where it's warm, and peaceful, not cold and dark. He wants to see the green hills again, listen to the tunes his neighbor hums when he's working in his garden, and walk the familiar path down to the market. Bilbo has not realized how much he missed all of this until now; and now he may never see it again).

He doesn't know how long he cries.

* * *

Thorin has regrouped with the majority of his company. Victory is close, though the fighting remains vicious. Perhaps his early success has made him weary, or the exhaustion takes its toll, but he fails to notice a goblin sneaking up behind him.

The hit against his head is too fast to notice, and then there is only darkness.

* * *

Crying leaves Bilbo exhausted, and still unable to sleep. Or perhaps he has slept and never realized? By now he wishes the darkness would just take him, pull him under and not let him go. Or to have broken his neck when the box fell.

In a bout of mad desperation he throws his weight against the hard wood, again, and again. Just one more tumble, and he'll stick out his head, not protect it, and let his neck snap. He won't see the Shire again, but really, anything but this suffocating darkness.

And shouldn't he already be dead of thirst? Has only so little time passed? If so, Bilbo doesn't want to wait any longer. He hopes for it to end soon, because the darkness is driving him mad.

He's almost certain by now that he's either been forgotten, or that Thorin chose this. It tears painfully at his heart – this is beyond cruel, even in light of his betrayal. How could Thorin do this – it's barbaric, and utterly horrible. Is this revenge? Abandoning Bilbo to perish in this chest – so that nobody has to see him ever again, that he can be forgotten, that they won't even need a coffin?

He's crying again, but he doesn't notice.

His heart is screaming, clutching at straws, desperate to explain away this nightmare. But the darkness lingers, the silence continues, and the stark, rational voices in Bilbo's mind win out. He'll die.

And for a moment he tries to accept it. Because unpleasant as it is, it's not painful. It's not like being torn apart by trolls, or eaten alive, or slaughtered by orcs.

The attempt fails. He doesn't want to be alone, not now, and he wants the silence to go away. Even if it's only to hear his friends scream at him, even if it's only the howling of wargs; anything but the silence. He wants the darkness to disappear – to feel the sun on his skin, just one more time, because aren't even those ruled to die granted one last wish?

Just once more he'd like to see his friends, his home, the sun… just something but this darkness.

"Please," he whispers to the empty air, "Please, just this once."

He doesn't know when the whispers turn into screams. Or when he stops hearing them.

_tbc_

* * *

_Well, please feel free to drop me a line. ^_^ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings: ** Beware of the imagery.

**AN: **Thank you! The response to the first chapter was quite overwhelming. And while this week's quite busy, I ought to be able to update frequently after. Until then – thank you!

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**II**

Thorin wakes slowly. He is laid out on something soft, and his body aches. It's a dull ache, though, and it feels as if his injuries have been cared for. He opens his eyes and finds himself staring up at off-color blue canvas. There's a bit of light filtering in, and outside he hears voices.

But not the roar of battle.

Over then, and they must have won, if Thorin is alive and being cared for. It must be around dawn, judging by the light, and the noises outside tell him, that clean-up is still ongoing. He then turns his attention to his own injuries and finds his chest wrapped firmly – probably a cut he barely remembers receiving. His knuckles are bloody, but he can move his hands and wriggle his toes. His head aches – he remembers receiving a blow knocking him out, so this is to be expected.

However, his mind and memories appear intact, and somehow he feels lighter this morning. And his head a little clearer.

He can't wonder at this for a long time, because then the tent flap is pulled aside and Balin comes in. The white-haired dwarf looks pleasantly surprised to see Thorin awake, and steps closer.

"How are you?"

"Well enough," Thorin replies. His tongue feels sluggish – he probably has been given something for the pain, then. "The others?"

"Alive and well," Balin replies, though his smile remains half-hearted. Thorin's stomach rolls with unbidden foreboding.

"Balin?" he inquires.

The other dwarf sighs. "Well, Master Baggins is unaccounted for. Nobody has seen him during the battle, though – we currently hope he slipped away before it started."

It's then that Thorin remembers, and ice floods his chest. Bilbo Baggins did not slip away – Thorin recalls the feel of flesh underneath his fingers, how he had wrapped his hand around Bilbo's upper arm so hard he felt the bone beneath it.

He must have paled, then.

"Thorin?" Balin asks.

Thorin sees the chest – not the largest in the treasure, certainly not, but conveniently empty. How he'd looked down on Bilbo's still form within it – like a coffin – as he had slammed the lid shut. The screams that had followed him out – and the dull roar of tumbling gold afterward.

"I … I need to go inside," Thorin gasps out. He feels faint – Balin would know if somebody had found Bilbo, but that he doesn't means that Bilbo is still in there.

Balin raises an eyebrow. Thorin knows he's injured, and that he shouldn't move, but Bilbo has been in this box since last afternoon, and he can't let another moment go to waste. Not when now Thorin finally understands what Bilbo attempted.

That Bilbo never meant to betray him.

That…

"I know where Master Baggins is," Thorin declares.

Balin observes him, and somehow he must understand that Thorin is behind Bilbo's disappearance – and also understands Thorin's need to resolve this.

"Very well," he says, "I'll go with you, though. And we'll take Dwalin, too, because I can't carry you."

The old joke fails to draw a smile. Thorin thinks how small the chest was, and he can't imagine what Bilbo must be feeling. It must be beyond his worst nightmare – and he only hopes they'll get there as fast as possible.

Balin, however, works magic. He manages to let Thorin slip inside unseen and unbothered, and Dwalin follows silently behind them. Thorin is unsteady, and has to lean heavily on Balin, but he pushes himself forward as fast as he can.

As they head to the treasury, Thorin's thought grow evermore frantic. What if they are too late – what if Bilbo has suffocated? What if his heart gave out? What if they open the chest to find a dead body, one with fear and pain written all over his gentle features?

(He doesn't think he could stand it. Already he regrets how he treated Bilbo up on the parapets, how he let his anger and gold-lust cloud his vision. To learn that Bilbo paid for it with his life would be unbearable).

To his horror, the mountains of treasure have shifted – the chest is no longer visible. Thorin recalls the roar behind him – he'd slammed the door, half hoping for this to happen. It has, and his heart is pounding so fast he feels dizzy.

"Do you need to sit down?" Balin asks, surveying the gold and gems before them.

Thorin shakes his head. He needs a moment to find his voice, though, "A chest… A medium-sized wooden chest. It was over there –" he points at a spot right in front of him, even though now there's nothing but coins and stones.

"We're looking for a chest?" Dwalin asks, "I thought…"

Balin glances sharply at his brother. He probably already has it worked out, and Thorin is only glad there's no judgment yet. Not before they've found Bilbo.

"Oh," Dwalin mutters, sounding horrified, and Thorin feels like a monster. (And that's the truth. What he did to Bilbo was monstrous, horrible and worse than the torments orcs bestow on their prisoners).

Balin clears his throat. "Master Baggins?" he calls out, loud and clear, "Could you please knock or somehow let us know where you are?"

The room remains silent and Thorin's heart sinks.

If Bilbo is dead…

"Let's search," Dwalin says, steps forward, and begins to shift the gold aside. It's not long before Balin and Thorin join. They discover the chest relatively fast. It lies upside down, and Balin frowns.

"We'll have to turn it over to open it," he says, and then knocks on the wood. "Master Baggins?"

Once again, there's no reply. For a moment Thorin wonders if they got the wrong chest, but then Dwalin carefully begins to turn it. And all three of them hear the thud as something inside shifts.

There's a moment of hesitation before Thorin steps forward. He doesn't dare to breathe – so many horrible outcomes that await him – suddenly he wonders if he shouldn't run and forget about it. If Bilbo's not dead yet, he'll be soon, and he could let everybody think the hobbit escaped …

But he also knows he'd never live with the guilt.

So he takes a deep breath, steels his heart as much as he can and undoes the lock holding the lid closed. Thorin slowly opens the lid and a gust of warm, stale air escapes. The light reveals what he feared – a limb body, head tilted aside, and one shoulder painfully dislocated. Tear tracks cover Bilbo's face, along with splotches of blood and dirt – his knuckles are bruised, and full of splinters – and Thorin feels like falling onto his knees and crying himself.

"Let's get him out of there, at least," Balin mutters, and all Thorin can suddenly think of how much this chest resembles a coffin. He barely notices Dwalin stepping up next to him and carefully bending down to lift Bilbo.

In Dwalin's arms, Bilbo looks like a child. The light of the treasury reveals the strain this had on the hobbit – even now, his face looks haunted. Balin spreads his coat and gestures for Dwalin to set the hobbit down. Balin's face is grim, and Thorin knows he is losing two of his oldest friends – but he brought this upon himself, and he will not fault them for not forgiving him this.

Dwalin tilts his head, and hesitates.

Then, instead of setting Bilbo down, he glances up. "He's alive."

Thorin's heart skips a beat. Balin brightens, but still gestures for Dwalin to put the hobbit down so he may look on him. It's almost painful to see how much care Dwalin takes, when all Thorin can remember is his own gruff actions. Bilbo's actions have made him forget that in reality, the hobbit is a small creature, and a dwarf of Thorin's strength can easily break his bones.

Balin may not be a healer, but he has experience and knowledge, and checks Bilbo's head and chest for injuries. Eventually, he leans back. "Alive and no fatal injuries," he declares, and Dwalin sighs in relief, "His pulse is weak, though – we should get him to a healer sooner rather than later."

He glances at Thorin, and Thorin abruptly realizes his friend is asking whether he'll allow Bilbo a healer. It's horrifying, but not surprising. After all, Thorin locked Bilbo in a chest, so he may very well be capable of having him denied medical assistance for it may tarnish Thorin's reputation.

"Of course…" he stammers, sounding as lost as he feels. Balin remains understandably unsympathetic.

Dwalin clears his throat. "We should set the shoulder first," he advises, "It'll hurt him all the way to the healers, otherwise. Even if he's unconscious. And this way, the pain won't be too bad."

Thorin, like Dwalin, has dislocated enough limbs to recognize the logic. He'll leave this to Balin, however, since he mentioned concern at Bilbo's pulse, and Thorin understand that this with shock may prove a fatal combination. Transport, then, is just as risky as setting it.

"Do it," Balin rules.

Dwalin doesn't even need help to extend the pressure needed. He's quick about the motions – familiar as they are – but the click of bones setting is joined by a choked scream.

Thorin freezes as Bilbo's eyes flutter open, and the hobbit gasps for breath, squirming under Dwalin's gentle grip. Fresh tears roll over his cheeks, and he makes pained little sounds, that drive a spike right through Thorin's heart.

"Master Baggins," Balin calls out, softly, and rests a hand on Bilbo's good arm, "Calm down, please, you are safe."

Dwalin keeps one hand on the shoulder to keep it from moving. The other one runs through Bilbo's curls in a soothing motion. Thorin stands a step behind Balin, watching helplessly. He dares not speak, doesn't even know what to say – there are no words of apology in any language on Middle Earth to express what he is feeling.

Balin and Dwalin manage to calm Bilbo down, and finally the hobbit's eyes focus.

"Balin?" he mumbles and his voice is hoarse.

He must have screamed for help, Thorin thinks, and again feels like a monster. Screamed, and nobody ever heard – and what if Thorin had died, what if nobody had found Bilbo—he doesn't dare to complete this thought. It's choking him, physically, to even imagine what he almost caused.

Not that is lessens what he did cause.

Bilbo is trembling violently, and Balin once again gently talking. Asking Bilbo to calm down, to relax, telling him that he need not worry, that everything is alright. It seems to be working, as Bilbo's breathing evens out.

Then, for some reason, Bilbo tilts his head and his eyes find Thorin.

The reaction is immediate. The hobbit makes an aborted attempt to shuffle backwards, eyes blown large in unmitigated panic. He isn't breathing, Thorin realizes, as Balin surges forward, but before anyone can do a thing, Bilbo slumps over, unconscious again.

His breathing is fast and shallow, eerie in the treasury. Balin takes his pulse with a frown on his face, but eventually leans back with a loud sigh.

"He'll need a quiet place to recover. And some kingsfoil, if there's any left," he says.

Dwalin begins to wrap the large fur coat around Bilbo's small frame, and Thorin finally finds himself capable of movement. His entire body feels stiff, foreign – guilt and terror freezing him.

"Take my tent," he mutters. It's large and airy, but nobody will dare to stumble inside carelessly.

Balin raises an eyebrow. "And where are you going to recover?"

And then Thorin realizes that his body is numb not only from terror, but also from pain. But it is a dull ache, smothered by healers and irrelevant before this greater travesty. He shrugs, then. Perhaps his nephews will share their space; and there should be some chambers in Erebor at least vaguely habitable.

At least habitable enough for one as monstrous as him.

_tbc_

* * *

_Please feel free to drop me a line. ^_^ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings: ** Beware of the imagery.

**AN: **Thank you! The response is amazing! And now, that I've finished this particularly exhausting week, expect some more frequent updates. Thank you, once again!

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**III**

Never in his life will Thorin forget the moment they carried Bilbo's unconscious body out of Erebor and over to the tents. It feels as if everybody present – man, dwarf or elf – stops what they were doing to watch the small, silent procession.

Thorin keeps his head straight, staring ahead. Guilt and injury would see him bowed, but he has to be strong for his people. Madness and grief have led him astray before; he cannot allow himself to falter again.

Though now, most eyes rest on the hobbit.

Of course, after the scene on the parapets everybody recognizes Bilbo. The one who stole the Arkenstone to stop a senseless battle. Who offered his own share of the treasure to elves and men. And all of them watched as Thorin threatened to have Bilbo killed – and are watching now, as a very pale and still hobbit is carried out of Erebor.

The silence is suffocating.

Then an elf steps determinedly into their path – Thorin recognizes on of Thranduil's sons, the hair a shade darker than his father's, and his bearing not quite so icy. His blue eyes are fixed on Bilbo, and he forgoes all curtsies (and for once Thorin is glad, because while an elvish prince should pay his respects to a dwarf king, the king then also should honor the prince. And Thorin feels this is beyond him, now).

"What befell the hobbit?" he asks.

It is Balin who sighs. "Misfortune," he answers.

The elf's features then relax slightly. "But he lives?"

And only elvish eyes could have spied the small movements of Bilbo breathing.

"He does," Balin replies, "And his injuries are no worse than scrapes."

"This gladdens me to hear," the prince says, "But it seems some shadow lingers over his spirit?"

Again, Balin confirms the sharp observation.

"Perhaps, if you shall allow it, our healers know some remedies for maladies as such," the prince suggests, "In this we will offer our full assistance."

Balin manages a polite smile. "This is a generous offer, indeed. And we will recall it, should the need arise."

And with that, the elvish group steps back and Thorin, Dwalin and Balin carry on. In the back of his mind Thorin knows it was ill done – how he left Balin to speak in his stead before all eyes. Though he is injured, so at least his odd behavior has an excuse.

Even if it's not the truth.

In a twisted stroke of fate he's almost glad Fili and Kili have been ordered to rest abed – as Balin and Dwalin, they'd naturally be able to connect the dots. To draw the line between Bilbo's condition and Thorin's outrage.

He doesn't think he would survive their questions.

Or explaining what he did.

Still, seeing other members of the company drives a blade into Thorin's stomach each time, until he feels like an empty shell held together by strings. Gloin and Bombur do not approach them, and their expressions remain unchanged, but their eyes are hard. Oin is too busy, on the other side of the camp, but Thorin fears what he'll think once he sees Bilbo.

Propriety makes Dori avert his gaze, though Nori makes no attempt of hiding his glare, and Ori joins him. Which is painful, because Thorin knows just how much respect Ori had for him at the beginning of this journey – and all he found then must have been disappointing.

Bofur is the one to stumble forward, followed closely by Bifur. The usually cheery dwarf gently runs his fingers through Bilbo's hair, and then produced a very stained handkerchief to wipe the tear tracks from Bilbo's cheeks – the action has Thorin's stomach lurch.

And he finds Balin looking awkward, too, because somehow none of them thought to clean Bilbo's face before carrying him outside. Bofur, however, says nothing beyond his inquiries to Bilbo's health, an inaudible promise whispered for Bilbo alone to hear – and then he turns to leave. He doesn't even look at Thorin. Bifur is the one to cast a glance over his shoulder, and it reads unmitigated accusation.

Even if he knows this is comeuppance for his actions, Thorin still feels glad when they disappear within the privacy of the large tent. The cot has been stuffed with additional pillows, and while the size was just right for Thorin, Bilbo is dwarfed by it.

"I'll go and fetch a healer, then," Balin declares, as Dwalin settles the hobbit, "And whether there's some…"

He doesn't get to complete the sentence, as a tall, grey-clad wizard storms into the tent.

"Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf thunders, "What have you done to your hobbit?"

The wizard does not wait for a reply but pushes past Balin, and Dwalin has to take a step aside not to be shoved. The brothers remain silent – angry wizards are not pleasant, and Gandalf has addressed Thorin, after all.

Gandalf's hand hovers over Bilbo's brow for a moment, and whatever he finds provides a little relief. However, when Gandalf turns back to the dwarves, his fury has not lessened.

"What did you do?" he asks, quieter this time, and it grants his voice all the more weight. The hairs on Thorin's arms stand in response, and he has to suppress a shudder.

It takes long, tense moments until he manages to work his voice.

"I … I…."

And then suddenly Dwalin steps forward. "He's waking," he announces and they all fall silent. Bilbo's lashes flutter, and then his eyes open rather abruptly.

"Bilbo," Gandalf says, kneeling down next to the hobbit's bed. Bilbo blinks, obviously trying to find his bearings – he hasn't glanced past Gandalf yet, and the dwarves are silent. Then Bilbo makes to lift his head. Balin reacts at once, pushing Thorin back so he won't be seen.

"Bilbo, how are you feeling?" asks Gandalf and draws Bilbo's attention back to himself.

The hobbit looks pale, and it takes a painfully long time until he replies. "I… thirsty."

As soft as his voice is, it is hoarse. From screaming, as the dwarves can imagine, even though they never heard it.

Dwalin is the one to procure a waterskin. However, when he holds it out, Bilbo's eyes widen abruptly, and he freezes for a second. The next, he's trying to scramble backwards and away from the large dwarf, eyes unseeing, and Thorin feels as if his heart is being torn into pieces.

Bilbo tries to say something, but only choked sounds fall from his lips. He struggles, even as Dwalin takes a slow step backward and Gandalf rests a hand on Bilbo's arm, muttering calming words under his breath. Neither Balin nor Thorin dares to breathe, lest they draw Bilbo's attention.

Eventually Gandalf coaxed Bilbo to relax and some water down his throat. The hobbit's hands tremble too much to hold the waterskin himself, but his eyes clear after.

"Gandalf," he says, in a soft, hoarse voice.

"My dear Bilbo," the wizard utters and makes to draw the hobbit in a hug. Bilbo, however stiffens, and Gandalf stops himself. "I'm glad to see you with us," he says instead.

The nod Bilbo gives in response is shaky. "How long…" he mumbles. And while the question may refer to the time he spent unconscious, Thorin knows it may extend to the time he spent locked in the chest. There can't have been a way to tell time in there, and Thorin knows how darkness can stretch minutes into hours.

"Not that long," Gandalf answers, managing to sound reassuring.

"The battle?" Bilbo asks, without tearing his gaze from the wizard.

"Was fought and ended last night," says Gandalf. And after a moment adds. "We won."

There's no joy in his words, much like Thorin's heart feels bereft now. He may have won the battle, but in the end his actions cost him everything he fought for. Now, there's a mount of gold awaiting, but no cheerful smiles. And he knows, once what he did to Bilbo becomes public knowledge he will have no friends but sycophants.

Bilbo sighs, sounding relieved, and Gandalf relaxes a little, too. "You can rest, Bilbo. It's all alright."

Whether the hobbit believes him or not, the ordeal has left him too exhausted to protest, and within moments he is asleep, again.

* * *

Sleep does not come that night, and Thorin's conscience steers his feet. He finds himself back in the spacious tent, and Bilbo is peacefully asleep this time. Exhaustion is still plain on the hobbit's features, but the terror has lessened. His breathing is quiet and regular, none of the harsh stutters from before.

Remarkable indeed, Thorin thinks, and wonders if all hobbits are this resilient.

However, his thoughts inevitably turn dark. In the light of Bilbo's courage and kindness his own actions appear all the more despicable. From the very moment he set foot into the hobbit's own home, he offered scorn and disdain. Mocking in repayment for hospitality, and disdain for Bilbo's courage.

And even though he promised to himself not to overlook Bilbo's courage again after that fateful encounter with Azog, the gold made him do exactly that. As well as far, far worse things.

He still can't believe he let his heart grow so dark and twisted; that his family's heritage should prove his downfall, rather than his triumph. Even victorious, the treasures of Erebor now hold little joy. Not when he is surrounded by carnage that bought his home.

Thorin doesn't even notice when tears begin to run down his face.

* * *

Bilbo awakes to the sound of soft, choked breathing. He's warm and comfortable, and it takes him a moment to get his bearings. There's shadow lingering in his heart he can't immediately place, and only when he opens his eyes and notes the soft glow of candlelight brightening the tent the pieces come together.

For a moment, his own breath catches. He remembers blinding fear, suffocating darkness, loneliness and despair. Even now, the memory makes him shiver, and though he has far too many questions, all his overtaxed brain can focus on is the fact that it is over.

It is finally over. He is out of that dark, humid box, and he's alive and Gandalf was there, and it makes the abandonment hurt a little less, now. It feels as if he's afloat in unknown waters, and all that he can cling on is Gandalf's promise that things are alright.

That it is over.

That he won't be cast back into that box again.

His heart quivers at the thought alone – he would not survive a second time. Even now his mind seems to be balanced on the edge, as if it may yet burst into shambles. Shatter into something he will never recover from (and if the darkness is what awaits him, he would not mind).

Then he hears that odd noise again, and really, anything to escape the mad spiral that is his own head. He turns a little, and his eyes make out the huge, hunched-over shape of a dwarf, sitting on a low stool next to the canvas. Silver beads gleam in the light, and Bilbo recognizes Thorin.

His heart stutters, and cold sweat breaks out across his bed. Nervously his fingers clench in the thick blanket, but Thorin doesn't react. Indeed, the dwarf doesn't even seem to notice Bilbo's presence.

The hobbit barely dares to breathe as he keeps his eyes fixed on the King. His mind races – flee or hide, it tells him, danger, his mind warns and the memory of the dark almost makes him shut down. However, Thorin stays still, and the sense of acute danger recedes a little.

Bilbo risks a shaky breath, and Thorin doesn't move.

The dwarf has his face buried in his hands, and only irregularly some odd sound escapes. Bilbo can't place this – he hasn't seen Thorin like this before, and while a part of him is terrified, another part is even more desperate to try and ignore what happened.

It takes the glitter of something wet dripping from Thorin's chin for Bilbo to realize that Thorin is crying, and he can't stop the surprised noise escaping his lips.

Thorin's head shoots up, and red-rimmed eyes stare at Bilbo. The hobbit freezes, breathless.

"Master Bag …" Thorin begins, and something in Bilbo's chest gives a violent lurch.

"No," he gasps, "No. Don't. No."

Thorin spreads his hands in an awkward attempt to be pacifying, but Bilbo only notices him leaning forward, as if to rise, and his blood runs cold. His mind goes blank - there's memories of hands around his throat, his upper arm, pulling, shoving and pushing him down – and he can't breathe.

"Please, I don't mean to do …."

Whatever else Thorin says is unheard, because Bilbo barely hears anything but the frantic pounding of his own heart. His lungs won't fill with air, he is dizzy and his vision is darkening (and he doesn't want it to grow dark, it's been dark for far too long).

Dimly he hears Thorin shout for Oin, a healer, anyone, pounding footsteps…

And then he knows no more.

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings: ** Beware of the imagery.

**AN: **Thank you! I realize I'm currently horrible at getting back to reviewers, but I do adore your feedback. (And if you really want an answer, just let me know. I react to being prodded.)

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**IV**

Gandalf enters on the healer's heels, as near to a panic as Thorin has ever seen the wizard. He doesn't even so much as look at the King, but step up straight next to the healer and rest a hand over Bilbo's forehead.

Thorin stands at the back of the tent, watching them fuss, and feels useless. His heart is pounding, though, and his hands are sweaty. It's luck the healer and Gandalf ask for no assistance – Thorin's finger tremble, and he can't tell whether it's from fright or tension.

Between the healer and Gandalf, Bilbo's breathing calms fast. Instead of the shallow, stuttering breaths that made Thorin's heart clench, the hobbit now breathes slower. He remains unconscious (perhaps, again, for the better), and his breathing is not yet the slow, deep movement it ought to be in a restful sleep.

"I can do no more," the healer – an unfamiliar dwarf, a member of Dain's host – declares. Gandalf nods with a heavy sigh. Exhaustion is written plainly across his face.

"I can manage from here on," he answers, "There will be others, outside, who may need your help."

It's an order, one the healer recognizes, yet his eyes turn to Thorin. Who swallows, before giving an imperceptible nod. The healer than takes his leave and Thorin realizes he could not read the dwarf's expression at all.

He is King, and the dwarves will treat him as such. Even a healer who has to at least be able to guess at the extent of Thorin's involvement in Bilbo's condition. It is an ill star over his reign so early on.

"Thorin," Gandalf's voice draws him from his thoughts. The wizard's voice is flat, cold, "This may be your tent, but your company will not aid Bilbo's recovery. I'd suggest you either remove yourself, or I shall see that Bilbo is given more adequate lodgings."

Only years of experience keep Thorin from flinching. "He can stay," he replies, and his voice is dull, "And I will remove myself. I only …"

He trails off – something that doesn't usually happen to him anymore. But the situation is over his head, and he has so many different things running through his head, he can't quite tell what it is he really wants to say.

"I … would like to apologize," he eventually says.

His words seem to mollify Gandalf, but it is a momentary reprieve. Within moments, the wizard's features have hardened again. "And while that is certainly owed, you cannot expect Bilbo to be ready for it the moment he opens his eyes, Thorin Oakenshield. You can't demand of him to accommodate your desires in this – not if you really want to apologize, and aren't merely feeling obliged."

Inside, Thorin shudders under the wizard's penetrating glare. It doesn't show – only his fatigue does. "Not an obligation. Never that," he vows, "The dragon-sickness may have been upon me, yet my actions remain my responsibility."

The words are right. Gandalf's frown remains, however, he does not lash out. "In that case you will have to accommodate Bilbo. Wait until he is ready to face you again."

What remains unsaid – though they both know this – is that Bilbo may never be ready. Thorin's actions have caused great damage, and it is unknown whether Bilbo will ever fully heal.

* * *

After exiting his own tent, Thorin's weary feet carry him to that of his nephews'. It's in the early hours of the morning now – there's no hint of sunrise yet, but the moon is sinking toward the horizon. Oil lamps have been lit in the tent of his nephews, and a number of clothes, bowls and assorted tools speak of frequent visits by the healers.

Now, however, all is quiet.

Both Fili and Kili slumber, and Thorin takes care to be silent as he steps closer.

Fili is pale, white from blood loss. A goblin blade almost severed his leg, though the healers promised him his nephew will walk again. They are not that certain whether his writing hand will recover – crushed as it had been sometime before Fili's unconscious body had been found.

Kili's color, on the cot next to his brother, is better, yet a thick bandage has been wrapped around his head. Its white color did survive the night, much different from yesterday when the healers had commented on unusually heavy bleeding, even for a head wound.

Thorin only remembers blood and screams. He has a very faint recollection of Kili firing arrows will Fili stayed at his back, cutting down enemies left and right. At some point, something must have gone terribly wrong for both of them to lie here now. But Thorin can only recall fragments, and this stems from more than just the rush of battle.

There are gaping holes in his memory that he only now becomes aware of. Hours, he thinks he may spent staring at gold – though now he wonders how that can be true. In the end, he spends the reminder of the night sitting vigilant over his resting nephews. They are strong, and will recover. They both will make good Kings.

Thorin leaves, once Fili begins to stir, and his heart is no lighter.

* * *

Balin may not want to see him, but Thorin is King, and at least for his position Balin may yet speak to him. The dwarf is not particularly surprised to find Thorin in his tent as the sun begins to rise, and says nothing about the large shadows under the King's eyes.

Sympathy wars with disdain – Balin sees the grief in Thorin's eyes, but the memory of Bilbo's motionless body is much too fresh – so he straightens up, and greets his King without the familiar smile.

"Balin," Thorin sighs. The white-haired dwarf remains silent, and waits for Thorin to speak his mind. It takes the King several moments to collect himself.

"I … know I have not been myself, lately," Thorin says.

Balin suppresses a snort at this understatement. Thorin does not meet his eyes, and continues. "And I have done a number of unforgiveable deeds. I would have your honest advice, if you will give it –"

He takes a deep breath.

"Do you think me fit to rule?"

The question catches Balin by surprise. He may have had his own doubts, yet he has never expected Thorin to pose this question. Kings of Erebor ruled to their death – unless sickness of weakness of the mind brought on by age forced them to abdicate. Thorin, even caught in the throes of dragon-sickness, is neither.

The King slumps on a stool, and buries his face in his hands. In a soft voice he adds: "Only now I see how foolish I was. The dragon-sickness almost lost Erebor again, almost made me sacrifice my friends and kin – and now I wonder whether I can ever trust myself again. If not future decisions may bring on the tragedy we so narrowly escaped this time. If I will succumb to the dragon-sickness once again."

Balin listens, but keeps his face expressionless. His mind is whirling. Thorin is not watching him – he stares at the ground; his entire posture defeated. "If it was just me, it wouldn't matter. But already, my actions have endangered all of us. And now, they endanger the entirety of Erebor. "

Tiredly he brushes some loose strands of hair back. "I do not know what to do anymore. If not for me, then for the sake of the other members of this company - for the sake of Erebor, help me."

Balin swallows. "What are you speaking of?" he queries. Suggesting abdication to a king has cost other advisors their head – and regardless of their friendship, he has seen what Thorin did to Bilbo.

Thorin's shoulder slump forward, although he lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed when they meet Balin's. "Fili may be young, but the dragon-sickness did not touch him. Perhaps he should be crowned king. Tell me, Balin, please tell me what to do."

There is only one answer to this question, even though it is not one that makes Balin happy. He does not wish the crown on Fili for he has seen many rulers struggle under its weight. And crowns have broken many characters (though Balin doubts Fili will crumble. No, he rather fears that the crown will extinguish that playful light in Fili's eyes).

"No," he says eventually – and he wishes he could say this was for the sake of protecting Fili's spirit or mending Thorin's heart, but it is sorely for political reasons – "You have to rule. Fili is not only young, but he is your sister's son – don't you think Dain, or at least his advisors, will do their very best to discredit his claim. And you know what they think of the dragon-sickness in the Ered Luin. Elves and men do not know much it, but to them it is equal to madness. They will not accept your decision to nominate Fili."

Thorin blinks. None of the information is new, but unlike Balin he has not yet puzzled them together. And the rest of the picture falls into place and Thorin pales. "But then they won't accept my claim either."

"It is much harder to doubt the word of a king than the word of the king's nephew," Balin says flatly, "However, it may be for the best not to reveal too much to them."

Hide the dragon-sickness and what it brought on. Play it all as a political conflict – Thorin can see it work, and hates it already. His first act as a King then will be to force his company – the twelve dwarves closest to him – to lie for the sake of consolidating his power. And Bilbo will never see justice for what was done to him.

"How long?" he asks.

Balin shrugs. "Who knows. But it will take a decade at least for Erebor to regain stability."

Ten years of ruling on such a dark secret. It is an ill omen, but Thorin sees no way out. If his own death could change things, he would not hesitate, yet Balin is right – if he vanishes, the throne will not go to Fili.

And as much as he still dares to cling onto his own wishes, he wants to see his sister-sons rule.

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings: ** Fairly harmless chapter ahead. Some PTSD and lots of comfort.

**AN: **Thank you! I realize I'm currently horrible at getting back to reviewers, but I do adore your feedback. (And if you really want an answer, just let me know. I react to being prodded.)

On that note: Guilt and Courage will be completed. That particular muse is currently on holiday, but expected back anytime soon.

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**V**

When Bilbo wakes up, his head feels clearer. His limbs remain weak, but the ever-present panic in the back of his head has receded. Its shadow lingers – though now, he can start thinking again. Last night is a blurry memory of sensations and feelings and the rapid beating of his heart – even the slightest movement had sent his brain into overdrive, then.

It's alright, for now, as long as he consciously does not think about it.

This morning – and he thinks it is morning, he doesn't quite know – he can catalogue the sounds he hears and glance around at his surprisingly luxurious quarters. The canvas of the tent may be off-white, but is mostly hidden behind a selection of tapestries that helps keeping the wind out and the interior warm. Bilbo recognizes the patterns – he has seen those inside Erebor before.

There are a number of stools arranged around his bed, and a chest next to it. On it sits a chalice filled with clear water and a small bowl with fruits. Hunger is far from his mind – his stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch at the thought of food – but throat is dry. His fingers shake as he reaches out, and after he has stilled his thirst, he is exhausted again.

While Bilbo is busy catching his breath, somebody enters the tent. Bilbo whips his head around so fast his muscles twinge with pain. His body is frozen stiff, even when he recognizes Gandalf.

The wizard looks surprised to find him awake. Then a smile spreads on his face.

"Bilbo," he hurries over, "How are you?"

Gandalf carefully watches the hobbit, looking for any indicators of acute pain. Bilbo has some trouble relaxing his muscles again, but eventually he manages.

"Better I suppose," he replies.

Gandalf nods, and sits on a stool with obvious relief. "Resources are spare now, but please ask if you need anything. I'm afraid between myself and the healers we did all we could – which wasn't much, to be honest, so I'm very glad to see you up right now."

Bilbo nods, and grows increasingly aware of just how stiff his back is. Unsurprising, considering – he cuts the thought of before the memory can rise up.

"How are the others?" Bilbo asks, "I think somebody said we won, but I haven't seen all of them."

"I don't doubt they'll be around sooner rather than later," the wizard says, "They're all alive, some a bit worse for wear than others. Fili and Kili are in the tent next to you, and I think I heard them terrorizing the healers earlier today. Bofur asked for you, and he'll probably stop by later tonight – he went with a party to scout out the state of the living quarters inside the mountain."

"So they're all well?" Bilbo straightens instinctively, as an unfamiliar emotion tugs at his heart.

Gandalf smiles. "They are. Though I think Gloin lost the tip of his ear, if I heard correctly."

The sensation that blossoms in Bilbo's chest is relief. A smile begins to form on his face, and somehow it feels as if he never smiled before. It's a glorious moment – for now, the dark memories are banished and with them all alive there's a future to hope for.

"They will be glad to hear you're up, too," Gandalf adds lightly, "They were all rather concerned."

The words gladden Bilbo. Then doubt gnaws its way to the forefront of his mind – all of them, truly? Even the one who … (and Bilbo knows, that even though he remembers an attempted apology the night before, he cannot think the name or of what was done – not now, not when the darkness is so fresh and all too ready to swallow him should he let himself fall apart).

"Anyhow, I was …" Whatever Gandalf is about to say is lost, as somebody enters the tent.

Bilbo freezes, and it is Kili who wanders in. His head is bandaged and his movements are a little stiff, though altogether he looks rather well put-together.

"Gandalf," Kili starts, and then catches sight of Bilbo.

"Bilbo!" he exclaims cheerfully, and lunges forward. Only Gandalf's extended staff stops him from wrapping his arms around Bilbo. Kili stumbles backwards, coughing, and Bilbo dares to breathe again. Fine tremors run through his hands, his heart is racing and there's a fine layer of sweat covering his forehead all of a sudden.

He doesn't quite know why – but Kili with his arms wide open has suddenly become frightening.

Kili sees the hobbit's wide eyes, and his joy dims a little. He steps back, and sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. "Ah, sorry about that."

Bilbo is too busy getting his breath back, so Gandalf turns to the dwarf. "You were looking for me?"

"Oh, yes," says Kili and takes his eyes away from Bilbo, "Balin said to fetch you. They're negotiating with Bard and Thranduil, and it's not going too well from what I heard, so Balin said to get you. Maybe you can help. I mean, it's all a bit difficult, right now, with Dain, and all his generals and everybody has their own opinion. You probably know, but Balin thought you could help out perhaps."

Gandalf frowns. "Is it truly necessary?"

Kili grimaces. "From what I know they're negotiating supply routes. The rest isn't important, but with winter so close…."

Bilbo can see how this would be important, so he doesn't know why Gandalf hesitates. The wizard then turns to him. "Would it be acceptable to you if I left for an hour or two?"

"Of course," Bilbo replies instantly – and feels confused. Why does Gandalf ask him this? He's not – well, he's not well, but he won't fall apart the moment Gandalf leaves. At least, he thinks so. (And he hates the uncertainty that overshadows each and every thought).

"Very well," says Gandalf and rises.

"Don't worry, I'll keep Bilbo company. And Dwalin is guarding the entrance – he almost wouldn't have let me pass," Kili proclaims while Gandalf puts his hat back on.

"See that you do that," Gandalf says over his shoulder, "But see that you don't do too much, either."

"I will!" Kili calls after Gandalf. Then the wizard is gone, and the young prince turns his attention back on the hobbit. Thankfully, this time his approach is moderated. Instead of throwing his arms around the hobbit, he sits down on the stool Gandalf has vacated.

"So," he starts, "Uncle really put his foot into it, this time, didn't he?"

Bilbo feels how the blood drains from his face. Kili backtracks at once - "Oh, sorry, I shouldn't have said. Balin said to be careful, but nobody's telling me anything, and uncle won't even look me in the eye, so I guess he really … well, I mean, I saw him before battle, but … you know what, just forget I said anything."

Bilbo is dizzy. He fights it the best he can – he's blacked out too much, and he doesn't want it to happen again, so he forces his lips to move. "I… I'd rather not … talk of it."

"Ah, sure," Kili agrees easily, "But you'll tell me if I can do anything to help? Let me know if you want me to fetch you some food or drink? Or maybe your writing materials? Dori kept your things, and the battle didn't touch anything inside the mountain, so it'll all be still there."

Thinking of the interior of the mountain immediately summons related memories. The treasury. The – Bilbo bites down on his lip. He's trembling now, and Kili's face falls.

"I, I'm sorry. Really," he says, sounding contrite and mature (when Bilbo would rather see him cheerful, for all he unintentionally brings up bad memories, Kili's light-hearted nature is soothing), "I really wish I could have done something. Or could do something. You'll let me know if I can, will you? I wish I could just take this all away."

He gestures widely, and Bilbo understands he means to encompass the entirety of the battle. In his heart, he wishes for the same as Kili does – for this to be past, bygone and over. He doesn't want to jump at noises and movements, not when his heart already feels so strained.

He just wants to feel normal again.

The silence stretches just a moment too long to be comfortable. Bilbo can't summon his conversational self, and Kili is afraid of putting his foot into his mouth, again. But somehow he can't quite think of a topic not related to the events of the last few days.

"I heard you dislocated your shoulder," Kili says eventually, "I'm by no means a healer, but would you mind if I took a look at it? Balin said it might…"

"Go ahead," Bilbo offers, even though he doesn't know whether he's ready for it.

Kili then leans forward and gently peels back the collar of Bilbo's shirt. The hobbit stiffens immediately, because even the softest touch to the bruised skin of his back sends spikes of pain through his body. With a conscious effort, he forces himself to exhale.

"Your head wound?" he inquires, while Kili's fingers dance across his skin.

"Healing," Kili replies absently, "Your muscles are stiff – that must be quite painful."

Bilbo doesn't reply, because that's the truth and he isn't up to insisting he's fine – even if the pain in his back seems a minor discomfort compared to what lurks in the abyss of his mind.

"You know, Dwalin is quite good at working out those knots," Kili says and leans back, "I'm certain he'd be glad to do that for you."

When Bilbo remains hesitant, he adds: "It's really relaxing – he did it all the time when he taught Fili and me how to handle our weapons. He just knows where to put his fingers, how much force to apply – and moments later you'll be feeling as soft as pudding. You ought to try."

The offer sounds tempting, though for some reason a part of him is afraid of Dwalin. It's all complex, and very irrational, to a point that Bilbo is fed up at himself. So he nods, before he can change his mind.

Kili smiles brightly, and then proceeds to call the dwarf in. While Bilbo steels his nerves, Kili explains to Dwalin how he ought to give him one of those "amazing muscle treatments" and promises to stand guard outside in the meantime.

Bilbo wonders just what he got himself into.

And once he enters, Dwalin appears just as uncertain as Bilbo feels.

"Are you alright with this?" he asks, and his expression tells Bilbo that he'd more than understand it. That Dwalin is familiar with Kili's enthusiasm, but also familiar with the havoc injury and experience can wreck on a mind.

Even if his fingers are trembling, Bilbo has had enough of feeling delicate. He's pulled himself together before and survived, and he's certain there're soldiers out there in far worse conditions. Unlike many, Bilbo is neither dying nor in blinding pain – and perhaps, once his back stops aching, he can get up and try to make himself useful (rather than rest and allow his mind to wander).

"It's alright, I suppose," Bilbo replies and forces a chuckle, "Kili said you were some kind of miracle-worker."

Dwalin snorts at that. "Did he?"

Then he finally approaches Bilbo's bedside, and his sheer size suddenly feels intimidating. Bilbo takes a deep breath and forces himself to remain calm.

"Turn on your stomach," Dwalin orders, and begins flexing his fingers, "Tell me to stop when it hurts or you start feeling uncomfortable."

Bilbo's heart is pounding as he obeys. Dwalin has never harmed him, yet he's afraid to turn his back to him all of a sudden. He firmly tells himself that Dwalin won't hurt him, swallows, and arranges his pillow until he has found a comfortable position.

"I'll start at your shoulders. Tell me if I press too hard on a bruise," Dwalin says, and Bilbo feels the tips of his fingers settle in the junction of his neck and shoulders. The touch remains light – the dwarf traces the outline of Bilbo's shoulder blades, applying soft pressure on the muscles there.

It's not uncomfortable, even though Bilbo can't quite help flinching the first three times. The thin shirt is a blessing in disguise – he isn't certain whether his nerves would be up to skin on skin contact.

The touch stops half-way down his back, before the fingers gently settle against his left shoulder. The joint is still swollen, and aches at every move Bilbo makes, though for some reason Dwalin's touch is barely more than a tickle. And then it's already gone, and Dwalin lightly palpitates his right shoulder.

Dwalin mutters something under his breath (he's not swearing, Bilbo think, at least his intonation doesn't suggest it), and then returns his hands to their initial position. This time he uses the balls of his hands to rub small circles along Bilbo's spine.

The hobbit can feel his muscles shift under the gentle pressure. And while there remains a knot of fear coiled in the depth of his stomach, it's small enough to allow his body to relax. Dwalin's hands remain gentle and his touch is always mindful of the bruises and abrasions on Bilbo's back. There's no hurry in his movements and he keeps rubbing a number of spots along his spine, increasing the pressure until Bilbo's back is arched.

He even manages to coax the muscles around Bilbo's injured shoulder to relax – the hobbit can almost feel the pain drain out. And when at one point his spine gives a loud crack, it's as if his bones have been realigned in a way that is finally comfortable.

"That's all I can do for now," Dwalin announces an indefinite amount of time later.

Bilbo blinks. He hasn't dozed off, but for the first time in what seems to be forever, he feels warm and safe. Even the nightmarish memories lurking behind his eyelids appear to have vanished for now.

"T's nice," he mumbles, and it makes the tall dwarf chuckle. Bilbo thinks Kili should have told him sooner – this kind of treatment should be a regular occurrence, really. Now though, he should probably get up.

Though when he moves, Dwalin softly presses him back into the mattress (and it is testament to Dwalin's skills that the touch doesn't send Bilbo into a panic) and says: "No, just stay here and sleep a little longer, Master Baggins."

And Bilbo closes his eyes.

* * *

When he wakes up, Gandalf is at his side again. Night has fallen, since the oil lamps have been lit – the wizard stares thoughtfully into nothing. He's distracted by Bilbo shifting on the bed.

"How are you?" the wizard inquires. Apparently he likes what he sees, and Bilbo has to admit, he can't recall ever feeling so relaxed.

"Quite fine, actually," he replies. His sleep has been thankfully free of nightmares and he's warm, but the more he awakens, the closer those dark memories draw again. He'll have to sort them out, he realizes – but not now, not when he feels fine and doesn't have to worry about a thing.

Gandalf smiles.

"How was the meeting?" Bilbo asks, before the silence can stretch, "Earlier today, I believe? The meeting with Bard and Thranduil?"

The wizard snorts. "It went rather better than expected, but that isn't saying much. Th – Laketown will be recompensed for the damages caused, and the elves will receive a small sum for their help in battle. But a number of issues that remain unresolved."

Both ignore how Gandalf avoids mentioning Thorin's name or the Arkenstone. There's a seed of curiosity somewhere in Bilbo, but he dreads what discussing either of these subjects will inevitably entail, so he skips it.

"I heard there was something about the supplies?" he asks.

"Trust a hobbit to ask about the food first," says Gandalf, and Bilbo grins, "Well, a joint group for Erebor and Laketown will set out and see whether the plain around the mountain are fertile. The elves have offered to provide seeds. Laketown has enough stores to get through the winter, and Dain will provide for Erebor. Though that'll only cover a very basic fare, so they were thinking if they could use the river to buy further produce from the south."

Bilbo nods, with a sense of relief. "That sounds good."

"Yes, but well, it isn't easy," replies Gandalf, "Thranduil is asking a rather steep price for seeds, Bard still faces some internal opposition from those loyal to Laketown's former Master. And Dain will not only leave grain and supplies, but also a number of his soldiers and generals."

Gandalf's expression is dark. Bilbo can't help but tense – and where the respectable Mr. Baggins would have laughed at the idea of a political plot in the making, the hobbit he is now is wary at how easy it would be for Dain to just march in.

He has never met the other dwarf, only heard of him. Most tales positive, but he still remembers the words "he won't come" spoken in his dining room. It makes Bilbo feel rather uneasy.

"Does he…" Bilbo trails off, realizing he doesn't quite know how to phrase his concerns.

Gandalf sighs. "I don't know. Dain himself seems not ambitious as his advisors and generals – but I have to admit, I do not know him very well. I suppose we shall wait and see."

He straightens up. "Anyhow, a number of people – Thranduil and Bard among them – asked after you. I believe at least Bard was quite worried, too."

Warmth blossoms in Bilbo's chest. It's nice to know he hasn't been forgotten amid the chaos, and he smiles at Gandalf. "If they ask again, give them my regards and tell them I'd like to see them, too, once I'm up."

"I shall see it done," Gandalf promises with a fond chuckle.

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings**: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

**AN**: Thank you! I realize I'm currently horrible at getting back to reviewers, but I do adore your feedback. (And if you really want an answer, just let me know. I react to being prodded.). Also I don't have enough time to write as much as I want to.

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**VI**

In the tent next to Bilbo, Kili has just returned from a last walk around the camp. Standing guard at Bilbo's tent threw off his schedule, but he does not regret is. However, he has to force a smile when Fili expectantly asks him for news, complaining how his ankle is keeping him tethered.

"Everyone's fine," Kili tells him, even though he knows his brother can see through him, "Gloin was rather worried how his wife will take to him missing a bit of his ear, though I doubt she'll do any of the horrible things to him he came up with."

He prattles on about little tidbits – how Dain's soldiers seem quite stiff, relations with Bard's men have suddenly improved, and the elves make good healers, though it's probably a good thing that Thranduil remains out of sight. Erebor's gates have been sealed again, and even Kili isn't certain who has the key – he thinks it's either Thorin or Balin, but he won't but it past them to leave the key with somebody else altogether.

"Thorin?" Fili asks, interrupting Kili's tale, "How is our uncle?"

There's anxiety in his eyes. Even scooped up in his tent Fili has heard that something ill has befallen Bilbo, and that Thorin seems to be responsible. And he, too, saw what happened on the gates.

Kili bites his lip. "As well as can be."

Fili snorts. "That's not very precise, dearest brother."

"He's not bleeding to death?" Kili suggests, "Nor grievously harmed in any way that keeps him off his feet?"

They're both very aware that anything that would keep Thorin of his feet has to be a dreadful injury, if not a fatal one. The answer then doesn't really tell Fili much, so Kili sighs and lets his shoulders slump.

"He's, well, trying?" Kili frowns unhappily, "And very, very sad. I don't know what exactly happened, but it must have been bad. Balin looked just so angry, and Dwalin… I've never seen him like this, either. I mean, he didn't say anything, but he's taken to guarding Bilbo, and he almost didn't let me in. I'm not sure, but I think he's guarding it against uncle."

Fili blinks. "But - well, I think, wasn't uncle under the dragon-sickness? I thought he was over it?"

"He is," replies Kili, "At least it looks like it."

"But why would they not let him to Bilbo then? I'm certain he'd only want to make amends," says Fili, his eyes wide.

Kili swallows. "I don't know, but, you know, Bilbo seemed really unwell. Not injured, but pale and really, really jumpy. I sort of wanted to hug him, and I think he almost fainted, then. He couldn't tell me what happened either, and well… it's all just a huge mess."

At this he slumps down completely on his brother's bed, burying his face in the crook of Fili's neck. The blond dwarf chuckles lightly at the familiar gesture and pets Kili's head.

"It may be a mess, but remember what mother used to say – as long as you're alive, you can attempt to clean it up," he quotes. The words had been applied to life-altering situations as well as the more menial tasks as tidying rooms, and Fili hopes they'll ring true here as well.

He may not be very old, but he has heard tales that sometimes people don't recover from injuries.

For now, however, the words lend them additional warmth.

Fili doesn't know how long they stay like this. He may have dozed off at one point, and Kili's breathing has evened out. His little brother is a dead weight against his chest, and while his ribs ache, it's a reminder that he's alive. Fili doesn't like to linger on his memories of the battle – he recalls the sheer hopelessness and the fear that his little brother, his uncle and all his friends will surely be dead by dawn all too clearly.

Clearly enough that is sometimes sneaks into his nightmares.

On that note, he doesn't even know why he's awake. It's probably in the middle of the night, and he's fairly certain no nightmare woke him up this time – his fingers are steady and he's not sweat-soaked either – then he hears a rumble outside.

It's accompanied by a shout of warning, before the noise swells to an abrupt, deafening roar. It the clatter of metal tumbling – large amounts of metal, clanging and crashing. Fili's ears are ringing before it has stopped, and Kili twitches awake, too.

"What…?" he asks.

And then there's a scream.

It's high, shrill and barely human. Coming right from the tent next to them. Fili and Kili exchange a glance; then Kili is on his feet. The clanging has stopped, the screams haven't, and now they hear Dwalin calling for a healer, running footsteps and low curses in Khuzdul.

Kili stumbles outside, uncertain whether he'll be anything but in the way. Gandalf brushes past him without a second glance, followed by a healer. When the tent flap is pulled back, Kili can glance inside for second.

The scene leaves him cold.

Dwalin is holding Bilbo down, but for all his strength he can't stop the hobbit from struggling. Bilbo's eyes are wide-open in a stark white face, unseeing and full of panic. The wet glistening tear tracks make Kili's heart clench uncomfortably.

When the tent flap falls closed again, Kili shifts on his feet. The screams stop, and are replaced by choked gasps that threatens to tear him apart. He hears voices muttering, and presses his lip together.

This feeling of powerlessness is the worst. He wishes to help, but right now he wouldn't be even able to sit next to Bilbo and hold his hand. What he saw in this short second written on the hobbit's face was a lack of presence – proof of a mind too far gone to be comforted.

He only hopes Bilbo will pull back from this.

As he turns to join his brother again, his eyes pick up a movement from the corner of his eye. There, in the shadow near the large tent stands his uncle. Thorin's face is pale, shadowed and unendingly grieved.

* * *

The few hours Thorin sleeps this night are out of necessity, not for his personal desire. Too many thoughts are haunting his mind, too many terrorizing images rest behind his eyelids, and only exhaustion eventually forces him to rest.

Morning dawns cold and without comfort. The sky is overcast when Thorin steps out, and while he wishes to grieve, to make amends, to help the wounded, politics do not wait for him to regain his equilibrium.

With a heavy heart he takes his seat in the large tent set up for council. Dain sits on his right, joined by three advisors. Balin takes up that position behind Thorin, while Bard is on his own. Thranduil is accompanied by two elves that may be advisors, may be guards – it is difficult to tell from their dress or demeanor.

"Let us begin," Dain says once they've all taken their places, "I believe we stopped at the trade routes yesterday."

It is nonsense, Thorin thinks at one point, to negotiate trade routes when both Laketown and Erebor are in shambles, and winter is bound to half all trade for the next few months at least. Still, it takes a long time for them to agree that there will be no toll on the route to Erebor will be levied jointly by Erebor and Dale (once rebuilt), as they also intend to share the cost of fortifying the road.

After that the topic returns to the remaining sore point: reparations.

"We have no intention of denying reparations for the destruction Smaug wrought on Laketown," Balin assures Bard, "Though while you are in possession of the Arkenstone, you are nominally in no need of further financial aid."

Bard frowns, though before he can say anything, Thranduil speaks up. "Your burglar did give the stone both to elves and men. We are entitled to a share of treasure."

One of Dain's advisors snorts. "The Halfling had no right to trade away the stone. Whatever he promised is of no consequence."

"Perhaps not the stone," Thranduil agrees with an air of indulgence, "But I have been given to understand he intended it to be traded for his share of the treasure in any case."

"Void," declares the advisor, "His actions voided whatever part of the treasure was contractually owed to him."

Bard clears his throat. "And who decided this?"

"I believe you were present when his majesty –" the advisor nods to Thorin – "explained the situation?"

Bard looks decidedly uncomfortable at the memory, and Thranduil frowns darkly. "Still, we aided you in battle. And the fury of Smaug descended onto Laketown by no fault of its inhabitants. Surely, master Fror, you see how we may wish for at least a compensation for our losses in this?"

Fror purses his lips. "Indeed, now we shall aid you, when you did not aid us back when…"

"Enough," Dain orders, sharply. Everybody present knows that Fror is not from Erebor, has not seen the mountain prior to this, "We will not deny anybody – not when so many lives have been lost in this. Though I have to admit, the Arkenstone is an unfortunate trade, and Master Baggins' fourteenth, too, was not a well thought-out compensation. I believe we would indeed fare better should we declare his promise void and renegotiate the terms."

Thranduil is visibly unhappy, but Bard shrugs. "I would be willing to try this – indeed, I feel it rather unfair for Master Baggins to be denied his share himself."

One of Dain's advisors sputters. "You'd pay a traitor?"

Balin softly clears his throat, and instantly the room falls silent. He and Thorin have listened long enough to the others quarrel over their fortune. "Renegotiations are perfectly acceptable," Balin stipulates, "Though first, the Arkenstone will have to be returned."

Dain's advisors nod fiercely, while Thranduil glowers. "And who then will guarantee we will ever receive compensation? Who will guarantee you will not shut your doors on us and leave us to fend for ourselves?"

"Hunger will, your majesty," Balin replies, even as Dain's advisors gape, "Erebor is rich in treasure, not in food. We have no intention to betray you."

Bard nods in agreement, though Thranduil remains unconvinced. Then Bard leans forward. "In that case, how about we leave the stone with a third party until negotiations have been settled? I would nominate Master Baggins – I believe he has shown himself rather capable already."

Not in the eyes of the dwarves, but Bard only smiles at the outrage of Dain's entourage. Thorin likes the idea, even though he isn't certain if it'll do any good for Bilbo's recovery. Forcing such a responsibility onto him when he's so fragile does not seem helpful.

"Impossible," Fror foams, "You can't seriously be …"

"I agree with Master Bard," Thranduil declares, "I, too, would find the hobbit a fitting choice."

"But he's a convicted traitor!" exclaims Fror. Dain gestures for him to stand down, before he leans forward. "I agree with your logic, though I believe Fror is right, too. As long as Master Baggins is considered a traitor, he is no suitable party to leave Erebor's greatest treasure with."

Thorin clears his throat. "This is of no consequence," he declares, "While I indeed proclaimed Master Baggins a traitor, the judgment is no longer valid. Before we do, however, volunteer him for any duties, I would rather hear his opinion on this. He is not subject to either of us, and I believe it would be ill behavior to make decisions on his behalf."

Bard is the only one happy at Thorin's announcement.

In the end, the subject is once again, postponed. Instead, they negotiate a possible with drawl of troops from the plains. There is little food, and many soldiers to feed, but all feel uneasy, fearing to be cheated out of their share should their force grow smaller.

Which is a little ridiculous, considering Thorin has twelve dwarves with him defending Erebor. Dain stands with him before Bard and Thranduil only, and he is an uneasy bedfellow.

The moment they recess for lunch, Dain is at Thorin's side. "You revoked your judgment, cousin?" he asks, lightly, "Or was it never valid?"

Thorin can't help the dark frown on his features. "It should have never been valid," he replies – it has been too long since he had to play these games of words and intonations. He had been taught well, but now, with Dain who is surrounded by courtiers every day, he feels clumsy.

Balin's presence does not help much – he can't ask him for help when Dain has exclusively addressed him, and they're talking as Kings. Advisors then, no matter how good friends, have to stay out of it, as tradition demands.

"Oh, well," continues Dain, helping himself to a small serving, "I hope it hadn't had anything to do with dragon-sickness, or so? I mean, I remember your grandfather in the end, and well, it wasn't nice to watch, was it? It was luck Thrain was so good at pulling the reigns from behind the throne … the sickness has taken more than one decent mind from our family, hasn't it?"

And suddenly Thorin feels all eyes focused on him. So he forces himself to calmly chew and swallow, even though he wants to vomit.

"I do remember," he tells Dain, "What did your father always say? The mind of a dragon is not a mind of a ruler."

Usually this had been accompanied by a suggestion to combine the Kingdom of Erebor with Ered Luin – and had become rather ironic, eventually, as Dain's father had eventually lost his mind completely to the dragon-sickness.

Indeed, the memory leaves Dain uncomfortable. "You'd think Thranduil caught it, the way he's trying to make sure he gets his share.

"Though not surprising. Erebor's treasure has inspired many demands," Thorin replies. Behind Dain, his advisors shift uneasily.

"Though apparently not in halflings," Dain returns, "Humor me, cousin, did the alfling really manage to steal the Arkenstone? I have to admit, I'm not certain whether to be surprised or amazed at his daring."

"He did," he tells Dain and forces a smile, "But then, he managed to steal from Smaug before, so his skills are sufficient."

Dain waggles his eyebrows, and it brings out a sharp pain in Thorin's chest. He remembers a time when both Dain and he were young, and political ambition meant nothing. Dain used to move his eyebrows just like this back then.

It's another thing sacrificed for treasure.

"Amazing indeed. I only saw him shortly the other night when Dwalin brought him back – he didn't look like much," says Dain.

Thorin manages to keep his impression smooth. "I thought the same for a long while throughout our journey."

He never noticed Dain among the onlookers, and it makes him uneasy. Bilbo is currently Dain's best chance at proving Thorin's onset of dragon-sickness, and thereby strengthening his own claim to Erebor's throne. He wonders how much more Dain has seen and heard, and how far he can stretch the truth.

(Which is bitter, for just when he wishes to make amends, he has to lie, else the damage caused to everyone else would be far too great).

"A pity he seemed so unwell. I would have liked to speak to him," Dain says.

Thorin sighs. "Battlefields are no place for hobbits," and that is true, even if the battle is not what has harmed Bilbo so.

"That is true," Dain agrees easily, "And yet somehow he has won Bard' goodwill, some sort of respect from the elven King, the friendship of a wizard and your pardon, cousin, for a very daring deed. It's all rather remarkable, indeed."

Thorin forces himself to remain calm – Dain is watching him closely, watching for a twitch or any sort of reaction. His words put it all too clearly, just what central a figure Bilbo has become in this. For the peace negotiations, as well as the question of the legitimacy of his line. Should Bilbo accuse him of dragon-sickness, Dain can perhaps hope to be backed by Bard and Thranduil in his own claim to power.

And Thorin would allow it – Dain is a just ruler, he knows – but he did win Erebor for his own people, not his cousin's.

* * *

When Bilbo wakes he feels utterly exhausted and weary. His eyes are crusted, and his mind is bleak. He has hardly any memories of last night – only a bone-deep sensation of terror that still lingers – yet his fingers shake.

"Bilbo," a familiar voice exclaims, and before he can stop himself, Bilbo gasps and flinches back.

Immediately, the pleased tone grows worried. "Are you quite alright?"

Bilbo hears a rustle, and he needs a moment, until the rushing in his ears fades enough that he can identify his companion – and by then he rather fed up with himself. Gandalf, though, is seated on a chair next to Bilbo's cot, waiting patiently for the hobbit to gather himself.

"Quite fine, actually," Bilbo replies and can't keep the annoyance from his voice, "Or rather, I should be."

Gandalf's mouth quirks in a humorless smile. "Alas, that may take some time, I would think."

Bilbo is silent, his head turning over the last few days, carefully omitting that dark period before waking in this tent. The memory feels a little less menacing than before, but Bilbo doesn't dare to touch it, yet.

"How much longer?" Bilbo asks eventually, and finds he sounds exhausted to his own ears. He hates feeling this brittle – especially when he does nothing but rest anyway, "I mean, I…"

He trails off and Gandalf sighs. "I do not know," the wizard admits, "Things like this … sometimes they stay with us forever, and you have to learn how to live with them."

It sounds as if he is talking from personal experience, and it makes Bilbo wonder. Then, it also makes dread coil within Bilbo's stomach – currently all he is looking forward to is returning to his comfortable life, his books, his pantry and his garden, and to leave this – with all associated terror and anxiety – far, far behind.

To carry it with him forever – to forever jump at loud noises, remain this terrified – Bilbo doesn't think that would be a bearable existence.

"But then, some of us also find their way back," Gandalf adds, and his eyes grow fond as they look upon Bilbo, "And generally, time helps a lot to heal these things."

It's not quite the comfort Bilbo wished for, but he tries to take courage from it.

"Thorin- " Bilbo speaks the name without thinking, and while he freezes for a split second, the blinding rush of terror does not come. Still, he avoids the name on his second start. "He tried to apologize, didn't he? I don't quite remember much of it, but I …"

The apology ought to help with the healing, Bilbo thinks. Or at least, he hopes so.

Gandalf raises an eyebrow. "He did indeed, though not at an opportune moment."

And there's the truth to this. Bilbo doesn't remember anything Thorin said, just that somewhere beyond the blind panic that had enveloped his mind, the King had sounded apologetic.

"Then the sickness is gone?" Bilbo asks.

"You heard of it?" Gandalf asks in return, surprised.

Bilbo shrugs. "It cropped up in a number of histories – most authors either named it gold-sickness, or dragon-sickness. Some also just plainly termed is as madness. I didn't think much about it, but when Balin told us about Thror, it came up again. And once we got into Erebor…"

He suddenly finds he has to steady his breathing, and his voice still sounds oddly choked. "… once we got inside, everybody just started acting so strangely."

Unconsciously, his entire body has tensioned, and Bilbo can't bring himself to look at Gandalf. He doesn't know why this memory leaves his so unsteady – the glittering mountains of treasure, the crowd of happy dwarves digging through their reclaimed riches – it should be a good memory, really. Instead, Bilbo's fingers tremble.

Gandalf leans forward, about to put a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, but thinks better of it at the last moment. "My dear Bilbo," he says, "You do really astonish me at every turn."

Again, the words are only a small comfort.

"I just thought everybody was happy," Bilbo confesses, sounding small, "That they were happy to have back their kingdom."

"And they probably were," Gandalf adds. He casts a contemplative glance at Bilbo, as if trying to gauge the hobbit's composure – and finds what he is looking for, if just barely. "The dragon-sickness can be difficult to determine – at times it is greed behind it, at others merely joy, as you have observed. Only time and observation allow for a sound judgment – yet to give it time also allows the sickness to consume its victims further."

"But they can come back?" Bilbo inquires.

Gandalf sighs. "The longer the sickness lasts, the more difficult it becomes. And often, once the mind has cleared, desperation at their own deeds will take those that recovered."

And while Bilbo wants to ask after the King, somehow he can't move his tongue. Instead, he compromises. "And everyone is … is out of it?"

Gandalf senses the true question behind it. "They all are – if they were under it, initially. Some may have indeed been only overjoyed – gold and gems do call to dwarves in the manner food appeals to hobbits. Though I believe they are all rather appalled at how they treated you, and quite eager to make amends."

Bilbo musters a small smile – the magic Dwalin worked on his muscles last night is a fond memory, even if the panic during the night returned the tension to his body. But he doesn't want amends – he just wants for things to go back to the way before it all went so horribly wrong.

* * *

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings**: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

**AN**: Thank you for the feedback! May has been somewhat dreadful (though there were nice moments), so it's nice to look at my inbox for a cheer-up.

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**Chapter VII**

As the small council concludes in the early afternoon – once again, barely any progress has been made – Balin leaves with a deep-sated sense of unease. They can't continue stalling much longer, and while he and Thorin can do little more than play Dain (or rather, Dain's advisors. Balin still isn't too certain of Dain's mind in this) against Thranduil and Bard.

It's an uneasy balance and it won't last.

Bard's suggestion of excluding the Arkenstone from the squabbling has a lot of merit, even if Balin believes it unwise to charge Bilbo with it. Not from a political perspective – seen from there, it's a clever move – but from a personal one. The hobbit isn't well, and burdening him with this particular object will not aid him either.

Still, his feet carry him to the tent housing Bilbo.

The hobbit is going over a letter with Gandalf, and seeing them both look this calm soothes Balin's mind a little. He hates bringing the news he has – and that Bilbo flinches at his entry – but pushes forward, nevertheless.

"Master Gandalf, Master Baggins," he greets, politely, "Forgive me, if I skip the formalities – I'm afraid, I have a rather large request to make of our burglar."

Gandalf's face darkens, but Balin forces himself to watch Bilbo. He prays he won't find terror, for he doesn't think he'll be able to force Bilbo into this against his will. It may mean Erebor's end, since he can't figure out an alternative – yet then that will be his failure.

"Today, Bard suggested removing the Arkenstone from our negotiations," Balin says, and Bilbo pales at the mention of the stone, "and the proposal was quite well-received. Also it was suggested that you reconsider your own share – once the Arkenstone has been removed, reparations to Thranduil and Bard can be paid from Erebor's coffers, not your personal share."

Bilbo, white as the sheets he is holding onto, nods along. His eyes are wide, but the light in them remains contemplative. Though Balin can tell that the terror is not far from the surface. Gandalf shuffles, and Balin continues to ignore him.

"The stipulation, however," he says and clears his throat softly, "Is for you to hold onto the Arkenstone until negotiations have been completed."

Bilbo blinks. "Me?" he asks, and his voice is very, very small.

"Indeed," Balin musters a tired smile, "Bard trusts you, and Thranduil has indicated the same. Dain's side may be wary, but they will agree."

In truth, since they were not present, Dain and his advisors have to rely too heavily on rumors to be able to discern the happenings, then. The accusation of betrayal is grave, though, and a ready opportunity for them to discredit Bilbo – but even they won't be able to deny it was a trade made for the sake of peace,

"Can't Gandalf take it?" Bilbo inquires after a moment. He is looking down at his hands, radiating anxiety.

"I'm afraid not," replies Gandalf at exactly the same time Balin starts his explanation. He falls silent, leaving the wizard to speak. "I'm afraid, I'm not very popular with a large number of negotiators. They would doubt my impartiality."

And that's not quite the entire truth, but it's enough, apparently.

"But I'm not impartial, either," says Bilbo.

"No, but all think you are," replies Gandalf, "If you think on your actions – from an outsider perspective, you acted in the very interest of creating peace. Which is a goal all sides are amenable to."

"I just wanted nobody to die." Bilbo sounds very, very small when he says it, and it breaks Balin's heart to push on.

"Which makes you the perfect candidate, Master Baggins," he says, returning the conversation on its track, "But should it not be possible, we will try to find somebody else."

That is a desperate lie, because Balin can barely think of three other persons he'd trust with this, and all of them are a month's travel away at least. Nor would any of those three meet the approval of all in the council.

Bilbo sighs. "In this case… If I don't have to do anything with it, I'll take it."

Balin swallows – this is Bilbo walking into another bout of pain, and Balin is urging him forward. It's horrible, and he could just cast off his responsibilities and do as his heart told him. "You'll only need to keep an eye on it," Balin promises, "Nothing more.

Gandalf is very, very unhappy with Balin. They both know this is unlikely to end well.

* * *

By evening, the rumor is that Bilbo's life has been spared to not bring down the wrath of Bard and Thranduil upon the dwarves. Balin is approached by one of Dain's particularly pro-active generals, who insists that "there's no need to fear them. We shouldn't cower, now – Erebor can't be rebuild on such a shaky fundament. The traitor needs to be dealt his punishment; for Erebor is a dwarven kingdom, not one of men or elves."

Balin does not deign to respond to this claim. But as he hurries away, his mind turns the words over – he knows, there is resentment growing among the troupes. Not only in Dain's host, but, as Nori has implied, among men and elves as well.

The negotiations are taking too long, and each party is stalling, searching for ways to further their claims or discredit another. Bilbo has become a centerpiece in this – for Bard and Thranduil to extend their claims, for Dain and his host as an end to prove Thorin's madness and to deny men and elves their claim. If played well, Dain could end with a crown and compensate the other two parties with a bare minimum.

And as appalled Balin is at Thorin's actions, he doesn't think Dain deserves this crown. So while he is weary, he realizes what he has to do. Instead of heading for his own tent, he changes the directions to Thorin's.

* * *

Feeling restless, Kili has settled with Bofur and Nori for a game of cards. Nori is winning, even when he isn't cheating, because Kili is rather distracted, and Bofur is more interested in having fun than winning the game.

Kili's thoughts center on his brother, who remains pale and unable to walk unaided. The healers have assured him again and again that Fili will heal, he only needs time, though Kili remains uneasy. Tonight, once again, Fili fell asleep shortly after sunset, so eventually Kili crept out, wide-awake.

For a moment he had stared at the large tent next to theirs, thinking about Bilbo. Eventually he walks away, because he remembers how fragile Bilbo had looked. He probably won't be up for company this later – or maybe Kili is just scared of looking at him and remembering just how close they had come to losing their hobbit.

Cards with Bofur and Nori prove a welcome, if not quite proper, distraction. But neither Balin nor Thorin are around to scold him, and playing for money is strangely meaningless when the riches of Erebor lie within reach.

Nori is regaling them with a terribly saucy story concerning one of Dain's generals, when Bofur suddenly glances up. Kili follows his gaze, and they find Bifur headed toward them, eyes wide.

Whatever it is, it seems urgent. Kili tenses, and wonders why Bifur doesn't shout – shouldn't he?

The Khuzdul, once Bifur is close enough, is spoken too fast and too low for Kili to catch. Nori shifts on the balls of his feet, tense and a little awkward – Kili has a moment to wonder if Nori actually ever learned Khuzdul. He and Fili were taught because of their station, but he remembers that finding a proper tutor was hard in exile.

How much more so must it have been for Nori and his brothers?

He's drawn from his contemplations when Bofur turns, his expression not as urgent as his brother's, but still thoughtful. "Balin and Dwalin entered the mountain," he announces, "On the quiet. Bifur was wondering why, and I have to agree…"

They turn to look at Kili who shrugs. He hasn't talked to his uncle or Balin since the day before. "We could just ask them?" he suggests.

Nori blinks, but Bofur laughs. "Well, that sounds like a better plan than speculating. What do you say?"

Thus, their company of four makes their way up to the main gate. While the large gates remain closed, one of the small doors – just wide enough to let one dwarf pass – is indeed not truly shut. Before entering, Kili casts a glance over his shoulder.

The plain before Erebor looks magical, alight with many small lamps and bonfires. Most activity has died down, and he likes how peaceful it appears from above. Then Bofur nudges him, and with a rapidly beating heart, he follows him inside.

Nori, though, declares he will wait at the door and keep watch. So Kili is left with Bofur and Bifur to track down the old advisor. They move along quietly – Kili suspects Balin and Dwalin may be revisiting old memories, and should they walk upon a private moment, he'd rather leave unseen.

For now, trying to follow whatever traces they left, however, is a nice distraction from the worries haunting his mind.

And it is quite amazing how Bifur and Bofur track footsteps, pointing out wet patches of ground, disturbances in the dust, or how to tell when an item had recently been shifted. The path leads them closer to the treasury – and tension returns to Kili's body.

He'd really much rather walk in on some private moment than onto something worse.

The memory of the coldness in his uncle's eyes still makes him feel cold. How easily Thorin had dismissed the danger – how heavy-handed he'd been with Bilbo – though now that spell ought to have past.

For the sake of his own sanity, Kili can't allow himself to imagine Balin and Dwalin succumbing to this, now.

When they catch up with the two brothers, Kili's heart is in his throat. Dwalin stiffens with a growl, hand reaching for the axe at his side. He barely relaxes when he recognizes the familiar faces. Balin's shoulders slump.

On the floor between them is a chest.

Bofur tilts his head. He clears his throat. "Well, then," he asks to break the stiff silence," are you absconding with anything in particular?"

His tone is light enough to suggest he wouldn't begrudge them, even if they were, but Kili can't find it funny. Bifur doesn't either, and elbows Bofur in the ribs.

Balin sighs. "Not particularly," he replies, "Rather, we were meaning to destroy this."

This doesn't make any sense in Kili's mind, and apparently it doesn't make much to Bofur or Bifur either. Still, it's better than the idea of them trying to sneak away with a part of the treasure.

"There doesn't happen to be the body of somebody particular in there?" Bofur asks, still trying to be playful, even though he sounds forced, "In a number of particular cases, I'll be more than willing to help."

Bifur mutters in agreement, and Dwalin cracks an ominous grin.

"I fear not," replies Balin, "Though admittedly, the notion is not without merit."

Indeed, from what Kili has heard about the negotiations, has made him quite glad to be considered too young to participate. Which has not saved him from being introduced to Dain's advisors and generals – needless to say, the dislike had been mutual and instant the moment the advisors had figured he was not only a sister-son, but also not the first-born.

"What then has that pretty chest done to deserve its destruction?" Bofur asks, "An old grudge, perhaps?"

"Wish that it were," says Balin, "No, I'm afraid nothing that simple. And it's rather that for the good of us all, this chest would rather not exist."

It's an evasion. Kili may not be good at politics, but he recognizes this. Which also means, Balin is not making a particular effort at deceiving them.

"That does not sound good," Bofur admits, now looking worried.

Bifur steps forward then, leaning down to inspect the chest. It is open, and nothing is inside as far as Kili can see. The woodwork is slightly uneven and dry, though it bears a few darkened spots. The metal work is flawless, even if on the interior there some dull lines in it, looking almost like scratches…

Kili's mind goes numb.

Bifur says something in Khuzdul he doesn't catch, but it's sharp and Dwalin tenses again, and Balin raises both his hands to keep them all calm. Bofur has gone pale, looking at the two brothers in askance, and Kili just wonders what is going on, because those lines really look like scratches. Scratches made by fingernails.

Recently.

And Kili remembers the poor state of Bilbo's hands.

"He was locked in this," he says and his own voice sounds strange to his ears. Around him, the others fall silent, so he continues, "Bilbo. He was locked in this, wasn't he?"

It's a ridiculous conclusion – those scratches may have been put there by Smaug himself for all he knows, and he's courting treason by suggesting it even, but then Balin closes his eyes and nods.

Bofur stiffens as if struck by thunder.

"How long?" he demands, and all traces of cheer are gone from his voice.

"After the scene on the parapets until the morning after the battle, to the best of my estimation," Balin replies flatly. He sounds exhausted, now, while Kili's mind is racing with horror.

The chest doesn't look large now – Kili would have to curl up to fit, and he doesn't think he'd be able to move once the lid has been closed. Bilbo may be smaller, but the chest still is not large. Kili thinks of the absolute darkness, and can't help the shiver that runs down his back.

He thinks of being forced to lie that long, of being unable to move – how stifling it must have been, how suffocating – he breaks from the images, unable to bear them a moment longer. It's a miracle they burglar survived for a day and a night, when the idea alone turns Kili's stomach.

"… and Gandalf, too, thinks he will recover," Balin says as Kili's mind returns to the present.

Bifur growls something, and the only thing Kili catches in his uncle's name.

Balin frowns. "Thorin doesn't know we're here. I will inform him, tomorrow, but he hasn't ordered this."

When it becomes clear, that Bofur, Bifur and Kili wait for an explanation, he continues with a nod. "Negotiations are not going well, concurrently, and a number of parties have a vested interest in proving Thorin mad with dragon-sickness."

"But he was," protests Kili.

Balin agrees unhappily. "Indeed. Proving it has passed, however, is neigh impossible, and the onset alone would suffice to challenge Thorin's claim to the throne. Currently, everybody remembers quite clearly how Thror acted under the sickness – and then continue that they can't on good conscience allow anybody suffering from the same affliction to take the throne."

Kili tenses, while Bofur grumbles.

"Also, they would use it to discredit Thorin's kin, too – if they can accuse Thorin of succumbing to dragon-sickness, they can accuse all of us. If they successfully discredit Thorin, it is unlikely the crown will fall to Fili. Our actions did not do us any favors, I fear."

Kili feels cold – abruptly, their victory seems so fragile. And he can just see it happen – they have no host to back their claim – it would be so easy for an aspiring general or anybody with power, really, to do away with Thorin and Fili and take Erebor for themselves.

"Oh dear," mutters Bofur eventually, "That is a fine mess, indeed. Destroying this chest will help it, then?"

In response, Balin shrugs. "It is an idea. Dain and his men have become rather inquisitive in how much Thorin's actions over the Arkenstone may have been induced by dragon-sickness – Bard and Thranduil are suspecting this, too – and as long as Master Baggins remains unavailable, they're all on the look-out for some proof. Dishonest as it may be, I believe it would be best if the learned nothing of this part of the story – else there is a good chance that Erebor will be lost for good."

It is a horrible idea to see the Kingdom they fought for so unfairly disbanded by men, elves and dwarves. Kili though he'd known greed and intrigue, but this is beyond what he was taught in his history lessons, and he wishes they had the power to force them all out of it. The three parties may have helped in battle, but neither dared to face the dragon (true, Bard had slain the beast, but he had not dared to seek it out, either).

"So we cover up what our King did to our burglar, or we end up losing everything we fought for," Bofur summarizes their situation, "Lovely, isn't it? Well, it may sound selfish, but I'm inclined to believe Bilbo does not want to see Dain crowned King of Erebor, so how were you planning to destroy this?"

Kili blinks and turns to stare at Bofur. Balin's eyebrows have risen as well, though, in his heart Kili feels himself agreeing to this solution. Even if it is not right.

The memory of Bilbo's chalky face and shaky demeanor rises like a phantom. He wished for a speedy recovery then, for his uncle to take responsibility – though abruptly now, he realizes he can't wish for the last part any longer.

Unless he wants to admit to succumbing to the sickness, Thorin can't truly make amends. And Bilbo may have to back the lie.

"'s not right," Dwalin mutters, "But we thought 'bout dropping it down."

It's rather dwarven way of making things disappear. The depth of caverns makes it impossible to retrieve items dropped over a ledge above – and it is a common motive in dwarven literature (and history) to have uncomfortable enemies stumble over some edge to disappear until some unlucky miner finds a skeleton.

Bifur makes another suggestion, and Dwalin nods along. "Yes, I thought so, too. The smoke won't give us away – it's night, and the entire place still smells of dragon fumes, anyway."

"But the remains of a fire will be unmistakable," says Balin, "That would make us look rather guilty."

"Things dropped off a ledge don't always stay hidden, either," says Bofur eventually, "Sometimes they get found. And with all the cleaning necessary, and a possible resettling, the chances aren't good."

Bifur adds more, and this time Kili understands him.

"About the remains," Bifur says, "I can show you how to hide them."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings**: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

**AN**: Thank you for the feedback!

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**Chapter VIII**

Fili knows something is wrong the moment he opens his eyes. It's either late at night or early in the morning, but Kili is still dressed in his daytime clothes. He sits on his cot, head bowed, and lost in thought – though from the tense line of his body, those thoughts can't be pleasant.

"Kili?" he asks, softly.

The younger brother stiffens, before glancing up. His expression is terribly bleak, and Fili's heart clenches. "What is it?" he asks, as fear begins to crawl through his veins, "What happened, Kili?"

Kili shakes his head, but it's a feeble protest. Fili reaches out – and once again bemoans his lack of mobility – to pat his brother's knee.

"Tell me," he says.

A shudder runs through Kili's body, and for a moment Fili fears his brother won't speak. He swallows down a sudden knot in his throat, forcing the fear aside – they have never had secrets from each other, and no matter how shaken Kili is, they won't start now.

So he leaves his hand where it is, and waits for Kili to gather himself.

"I … we…" Kili takes a deep breath, and unconsciously wrings his hands, "We … that is Bofur, Nori and I … we were playing cards, and then Bifur arrived and said he'd seen Balin and Dwalin go into the mountain. We … followed."

Kili breaks off, and Fili reaches for his hands, holding on. Kili doesn't look at him, his wide-open eyes instead focused on the floor. Fili wonders where this tale is going – nothing yet appears particularly horrifying, but experience has taught him better than to urge Kili on.

"They were in the treasury," Kili continues, "Next to a chest…"

His voice hitches strangely on the word, and it takes him a moment until he can carry on. "I didn't understand at first… But they were looking to destroy it. Even then… I think Bifur was the first to realize – he started shouting, and you know, I'm not any good at Khuzdul, especially when somebody talks that fast, but suddenly I got it."

Kili's eyes are glazed as if caught in some distant nightmare. Fili doesn't like this look; neither does he like where the story is going.

"… Bilbo was locked in there," Kili whispers, "I … I think uncle did it."

The ground drops out under Fili's feet. For a moment he's entirely off balance, completely removed from reality. Then ice floods his veins and he slams back into his own body.

To find that there's nothing he can say. Only stare incredulously as his mind whirls away.

Kili does not notice his brother distraction. A shudder runs through his frame. "There were scratches in the wood. Recent, most of them," he mutters, remembering, "Looked as if they'd been made by fingernails."

He draws his arms closer around himself. "Can you imagine, being locked in such a small chest? How dark … and how, how … you know, it's small and you can't move, and you don't know if somebody will come for you and I … I…"

"Enough Kili," Fili interrupts. Even if he's beside himself, his brother's distress registers.

"Enough," he repeats and gathers enough strength to push himself up and wrap one arm around Kili's shoulder. First his little brother stiffens; then he sinks boneless against him. Together they collapse against the pillows, and Fili takes the opportunity to run a hand through Kili's hair.

His hands are steady, even though his heart is pounding. There's cold sweat covering his back – Kili's words will revisit him in his nightmares, and that is nothing compared to what their hobbit must experience. With a shudder Fili recalls the screams they heard last night – and wonders how Bilbo can ever recover from this.

But he is an older brother, so regardless of his own fears, he wants to assuage Kili's. "He'll be fine," he mutters – Kili will know his words for what they are, but right now this is the only method in his employ – "Bilbo is strong. You have seen it – always surprised all of us. He's going to be fine. Didn't you actually speak to him, yesterday?"

Because even though Bilbo was definitely not fine then – and will not be for a long time – the fact that he is capable of holding a normal conversation is more than Fili thinks he would be able to do after such an experience.

* * *

Bilbo wakes from a nightmare he doesn't remember with a noiseless scream on his lips. In a fit, he kicks off the blankets, not paying attention to the spikes of pain running through his body, all he knows is that these have to go. His heart is racing and he's sweat-soaked once his mind clears enough to recognize his surroundings.

The tent is familiar, and he is grateful for the oil lamps brightening the interior, even though it must very late. Outside, the world is silent but for the wind, and the soft rustlings of fabric. His body is trembling violently, though he manages to sit. He can't stay on his back – not when it summons those memories he can't face.

Once the pounding of his heart fades, he realizes that for the first time, he has woken alone. Gandalf is not there, nor is any member of the company. He sighs, and lets his shoulders slump – it's not that their company is bothersome, but on his own he does not need to hold himself together quite so much.

Exhaustion rests heavily on his shoulders, though Bilbo knows he can't sleep unless he wants to invite the nightmares. Instead, he very carefully draws a deep breath and takes stock of his body.

His shoulder aches fiercely, even though the pain won't make him faint any longer. The limb feels better, too, so Bilbo guesses that it's healing. The rest of his body is sore; his back in particular (and he can't think about the why, not yet, not now), yet altogether not in too bad a shape.

Perhaps he can try getting out of bed? His last attempts had been obstructed early on, and he doesn't exactly feel up to taking long walks – but getting his feet under him will help to restore some sense of normality (and won't render him quite so dependent on others).

It's slow going, and his legs feel like pudding after only three steps. He'll need to train – and push himself – he recalls how back in his youth one of his Took cousins broke his leg. The boy walked oddly for months, because he was unwilling to listen to the instructions.

Bilbo is determined to listen. If there's one thing he wants, than it is to regain his mobility as fast as possible. And then to…

Go home.

But can he? Is the quest truly over? Men and elves and dwarves are still negotiating the terms of peace out there, and Bilbo recalls Balin's visit – and with a deep sigh he drops back down on the bed.

He doesn't want to take part in these negotiations. He wants to help – see peace and the reconstruction of Erebor – he does not want to embroil himself in politics. Of all beings present, he is probably the one who knows the least –

And he certainly does not ever want to touch the Arkenstone again.

But he will, Bilbo admits to himself. He will, for the sake of his friends and all those he has come to appreciate. And he will not hand the Arkenstone over until all contracts have been signed, until the peace has been made durable.

He will not be going home soon.

* * *

At the council Thorin, once again, leaves most of the talking to Balin. Fortune smiles upon him in that his ancestors already preferred to send their advisors forward to negotiate – and Dain practices similar tactics – because he himself barely dares to open his mouth.

He hasn't heard any news on Bilbo's condition, and that is enough to twist his stomach. Once again, he desperately wonders how to make amends, but no gesture seems enough. Nothing can undo the harm he brought upon that kind spirit.

And his own suggestion to ask the elves for help had, unsurprisingly, been shot down.

"Thorin," Balin had said, one eyebrow raised, "If you do this, then Thranduil will have confirmation. And he will use that knowledge to his advantage – you know that. Also, Dain may find out, and this can cause a mutiny. Neither Thranduil nor Dain will let you keep the crown should they find out."

Thorin had bitten his tongue, and nodded.

He didn't want the crown, he wanted to return to a time when Balin hadn't always looked so disappointed, when Dwalin wasn't eschewing his company, when he could talk to Bilbo and no other kings were demanding his time and riches. (But had such a time ever existed?)

Instead, he had sighed and nodded in agreement.

Now, it is again Balin's voice that draws him from his thoughts. "… and Master Baggins has agreed to temporarily take charge of the Arkenstone."

Dain does not look happy, but his advisors appear far more upset. Thorin's heart stutters, and only endless lessons in his childhood let him remain collected.

"That's good," Bard chimes, while Thranduil frowns, "And what about his fourteenth – the part he promised us?"

"That you will have to discuss with Master Baggins," Balin replies, "His share of the treasure is his to do with as he desires. As Erebor will see to compensate your losses, however, and due to the general confusion predating the battle, we would recommend regarding that particular promise as void."

"And I will gladly do so, once compensation has been settled," Bard declares. Thranduil remains hesitant, and afterwards, Dain approaches Thorin with a rather wide smile.

"I'm amazed at what a change of mind must have occurred there, cousin," Dain says, loudly, "First you banish this burglar of yours as a traitor, and now you're defending his share. I would like to meet him."

"He is still recovering," Balin returns, cautiously.

Dain raises both eyebrows. "But he will take the Arkenstone in his possession tonight, didn't we just agree on this?"

"And so it will happen," Balin smoothly agrees, "Though I believe the healers recommended keeping the pressures on Master Baggins as small as possible. It is only that there is no other solution to this matter that he will need to be involved."

* * *

As glad as Balin is to have the council recess for today, his next task is not pleasant, either. His brother's form standing guard in front of the large tent has by now become a familiar sight. And just for once Balin wishes to retreat from this all – to be just one of the soldiers, to withdraw in a tent and close his eyes to all that is going on.

Instead he will forces Bilbo to do something that will not aid the hobbit's recovery.

They all know this. (They all heard the screams the night before).

"Brother," he greets Dwalin, who inclines his head in return.

"He's alone," Dwalin provides, and Balin wonders where Gandalf went. For now, however, that question is not pressing – so he steps past Dwalin, calls out, and then steps inside.

The interior of the tent is dim, and it takes his old eyes a moment to adjust. It is silent, too, and Balin makes out an unmoving lump on the bed. Once he steps closer, the lump turns out to be hobbit-shaped, though Bilbo is almost swallowed by two layers of blankets.

Balin takes a moment to study their burglar.

He looks better than when Dwalin pulled him from that forsaken chest in the treasury. Balin had certainly believed him dead, then, and even now it is a miracle that Bilbo's mind survived the incident intact (he has seen warriors felled by less).

Still, Bilbo is pale and sleeps curled onto himself. He seems even smaller like this – but then, their hobbit lost a fair share of weight, too, and this new grief will not lend itself to regular meals. Bruise-like shadows remain under his eyes – any observer would judge him in dire need of rest.

Rest, that Balin cannot grant him.

With a sigh, he begins to call Bilbo's name. The hobbit stirs, mumbles something, and turns to the other side. The movement is not smooth – rather it appears pained. Balin frowns and calls again.

Bilbo does not react to his voice. Though what seemed a minor movement before, develops into violent shivering. The murmurs grow louder, but for the sake of his life Balin cannot understand them. Bilbo twists uneasily in his sheets.

A nightmare, Balin understands. He reaches out, and then checks himself. Uninvited touch may, in this case, do more damage than help.

Instead he calls a third time, infusing his voice with the tone that used to make the soldiers of Erebor's guard stand straight.

"No," Bilbo mumbles, and his eyes open.

Tears glimmer in the dim light. There's a degree of despair on Bilbo's face that makes Balin's heart stop. Makes him want to protect their burglar from the outside world – because this is their hobbit, and the rest of the world should not lay claim to him.

Instead he steps into Bilbo's line of vision and waits as their burglar blinks the tears from his eyes.

"Master Baggins," he begins, politely, while Bilbo wipes his eyes, "I was wondering if you had a moment?"

"Sure," replies Bilbo, while his fingers tremble.

Balin presses his lips together. And forces himself to push ahead this task. "You may remember, we talked a bit about the stone, last night. Since Bard and Thranduil forwarded said suggestion, it was concluded earlier today."

Bilbo pales further.

Balin swallows down the obstruction in his throat. "Tonight, at sundown, Dwalin will accompany you to the plain. Bard and Thranduil will return the Arkenstone to you – you are to keep it safe, though how you do that is entirely up to you."

Instead of saying anything, Bilbo nods quietly. And Balin wishes to be somewhere else – because in this there can be no right decision.

"Furthermore," he adds, "Bard and Thranduil want to speak to you. And before long, expect Dain and his advisors to seek you as well."

"I see," Bilbo replies, looking exhausted and numb.

He ought not to be here, Balin thinks. Their burglar has more than deserved a peaceful place to recover, after all the pain he was needlessly exposed to. However, here they are – drawing Bilbo deeper into a conflict he should not be a part of.

"While I hope this will not come to pass, I fear I must warn you to beware of Dain, or rather, of his advisors," Balin continues unhappily, "They may try to coerce you into revealing certain pieces of information."

Bilbo's eyes are eerily wide in his now bloodless face. "What?" he asks, and his voice is barely over a whisper. Balin also notices his breathing fastens, yet hesitates to mention it.

"You must understand, Erebor's riches have inspired avarice in many," says Balin, "I do not know how immune Dain is to this thrall, but his advisors are all but pushing for ways to replace Thorin with Dain. It would not need much – after all, Dain has a host at his back, and we number only thirteen. Yet honor stays their hand – as long as they have no ground on which to refute Thorin's claim, they won't risk staging a coup. Especially with Bard and Thranduil watching the situation closely."

The hobbit is listening closely. As sickly as Bilbo looks, Balin recognizes the sharp light in his eyes – a spark, that had all but vanished when they'd first pulled him from the chest, and that even now flickers at times.

It makes saying what he needs to say next all the more vile. "A strong spell of dragon-sickness would provide reason enough to discredit not only Thorin's claim, but that of Fili and Kili, too."

Bilbo looks at him, and Balin sees understanding mixed with heart-wrenching devastation.

_Lie to them_, is what Balin is telling him. _Don't ever tell anybody of what was done to you._

_Don't tell what Thorin did to you. Ever. _

_It may help you, but it will destroy everything we fought for._

_tbc_


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

Warnings: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

AN: Thank you for the feedback! On an aside – this story is not headed into romantic territory, but feel free to read it through whatever lens you wish to. :)

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**Chapter IX**

Thorin has not felt any appetite since the morning he woke up after battle. Too many matters need his attention, and guilt weights too heavily on his mind to enjoy a filling meal, even after days of starvation. He eats when he must – there is a duty he has to perform for kin and kingdom, and he will not prove himself even more of a liability than he has already been.

Today, his feet carry him to his nephews' tent. Dwalin watches him pass, once more keeping the self-appointed watch at Bilbo's tent. No noises are audible from in inside, yet the dark look on his former friend's face speaks volumes.

He is glad to find his nephews well – both sit upright on their cots, soup bowls in front of them. As he enters, they turn.

And then Kili flinches, and Fili's expression darkens.

Thorin feels ice flood his veins. They know, he thinks with trepidation. And as shameful as it is – he ought to have confessed to them his failure himself – he is afraid of their reaction.

Kili averts his gaze and stares listless at the floor.

Fili purses his lips.

"Uncle," he begins, sounding oddly stiff and formal, "Perhaps we have already puzzled it together. But we would like to hear it from you: What happened to Bilbo?"

Thorin sighs – this reaction is at the same time better and worse than everything he expected. He feels Fili's eyes observing his every movement as he draws a stool, and sinks down onto it, exhausted.

"Something there is no excuse for," he replies, "The dragon-sickness may have taken my mind then, but it does not change the deed. And it is not only Master Baggins I do owe – it is the entire company, including the two of you."

He dares not to look at them now. Instead, in his mind he sees a younger Kili and Fili beaming at their uncle – cheerful, innocent smiles he almost lost forever because he treasured a stone over kin. And while his nephews live, their smiles have certainly lost that childish innocence. Thorin's own actions have seen to it.

"My actions almost cost your lives," he says, "For that I will remain forever guilty."

There is some odd, choked noise from Kili in response, and Fili's voice sounds strained when he speaks next. "We understand, uncle, but that is another matter entirely. I asked you what happened to our burglar."

Fili will make a very good ruler, Thorin thinks (and that is balm on his weary soul).

"Indeed," he agrees, "The dragon-sickness has left me blind to many things. And once Master Baggins' actions came to light, it led me into a maddening fury. With the battle drawing near, I could not exact punishment – a stroke of luck then, I believe – and instead went to lock Master Baggins up so that affair could be ended after the battle."

He swallows. Before his eyes there appears a vision of the chest. Shorter than the cots, certainly, and perhaps only as high as the stool he sits on. There's a memory of feeling Bilbo's arm under his hands – the limb much thinner than it ought to be, and a vicious pleasure at his harsh grip on it.

Now the memory only leaves the taste of bile in Thorin's throat.

"A chest," Kili hisses abruptly, "You locked him up in a tiny chest!"

"I did," Thorin admits, and wishes for the ground to swallow him. But perhaps such a death might be too swift for one like him.

Fili whispers something at his brother, and Kili bristles. "You didn't see it," he replies, "It was tiny! Barely large enough to turn around in. Bilbo was in there for hours – you can't … there were nail marks in the wood, Fili. Nail marks."

Thorin buries his face in his hands, and presses his eyes closed against the burn of tears. Kili has seen the chest – and Thorin hates himself even more for forcing his nephew to imagine what being locked within must have been like. For being the one to dim that bright smile further.

… and he can't even bear to think what he has done to their hobbit.

Nail marks.

He had not seen them, then, though he remembers seeing bandages on Bilbo's hands.

"How long?" Fili asks, and his voice only barely manages to penetrate Thorin's thoughts. When the older dwarf fails to answer, he repeats sharply: "How long was Bilbo locked in there?"

Thorin swallows down a knot in his throat. "From before the battle until the morning after."

"Mahal," Fili whispers, sounding completely horrified, "Did nobody know?"

Thorin shakes his head.

"That… that…" Fili sputters, and there is steel in his voice. Steel and fury that is only developing and not there yet. "…what if you had died?"

That is something Thorin cannot dare to even imagine.

(With the chest buried under the rest of treasure, it is questionable whether Bilbo's shouts would have been heard.)

Another strangled sound escapes Kili's throat.

"Uncle," Fili says, "Please leave. Now."

Numbly, Thorin does as bidden.

* * *

Even with too many worries crowding his mind, Bilbo grows restless. Or perhaps it is because there are too many issues that he tries to get back onto his feet. He dares not to linger too long within his own head, not when he has yet to fear the monsters lurking there.

And Balin's announcement carries its own shadows.

Much as he hates to be forced to obscure the truth, he finds he would hate it more for Dain to take the crown. He may not have met the other dwarf king, but he remembers him to be the one unwilling to support this quest.

A quest that Bilbo sacrificed too much for to see its spoils go to another. So he will collaborate in this lie, even if it conflicts with his personal morals (another reason, perhaps, why hobbits stay out of the politics of men and elves. Intrigue is not much his likening).

At least his legs prove willing to support his weight, though they feel shaky. Bilbo takes a deep breath and starts walking. Slowly he moves from one end of the tent to the other, stopping to shift his weight from time to time, stretch his arms and back – and his shoulder still aches fiercely – and curl his toes on the ground.

Somehow this returns a sense of stability to him that has been lost ever since Balin's announcement.

The idea of facing Bard, Thranduil, Thorin and the stone tonight still makes him dizzy.

His entire self is completely off center. Now, with his feet on the ground, Bilbo notices how brittle the events have left him. And while it probably makes sense, he hates it. He has never enjoyed feeling unbalanced, but this is different from adventuring.

Where the quest changed his priorities, this final nightmare almost unraveled him.

Bilbo presses his lips together. There is a faint tremor in his fingers, and he wonders what he can do. Going home will take long, and is currently out of question. (Another painful thought he does not want to linger on for too long).

His mind is haunted, yet if he indulges that darkness, he fears he may not emerge again.

Back in the Shire, he would have gone for a walk. He usually did, before making big decisions (with the exception of this one). It doesn't look sunny outside, but maybe seeing the sky will help.

He doesn't know what seeing the dwarves will do to him.

And so a scared, but determined Bilbo Baggins makes his way outside.

* * *

Gandalf's attention is drawn by angry shouting. He recognizes the voice as Dwalin's, but not the words – it is fast-paced, harsh sounding Khuzdul, and worry hastens Gandalf's step.

When he arrives it's to a scene that makes his blood run cold.

Dwalin is kneeling next to Kili, yelling at dwarf dressed in polished armor – an assistant of one of Dain's advisors, Gandalf recalls – and making sharp gestures. Kili hovers protectively over an unconscious figure on the ground – the small shape of a hobbit.

Without a word Gandalf pushes past the onlookers and joins Kili.

"What happened?" he inquires sharply, already reaching out for the hobbit's spirit with his magic.

The body on the ground is frighteningly pale in daylight, though his chest moves.

Dwalin curses. "That scum," he says aloud, and ignores the other dwarf's sputtering, "Tried to draw our burglar's attention – by grabbing him at the arm."

"I meant no offense," the other dwarf hurries to proclaim, though Gandalf is not listening, cursing forever the idiocy of having Bilbo in the middle of this, "I only wanted his attention. He wasn't reacting when I called, so I …"

"You did not call loud enough, then," growls Dwalin, "I did not hear you, either and I was not far away. And that is no excuse to touch anyone as rudely as you did."

A mulish expression remains on the other dwarf's face – Gandalf stores it away to examine at another time (he knows it bodes ill, for obviously the tale of Bilbo taking the Arkenstone has spread) – for now, he leans back.

"He's alright," he tells Dwalin and Kili, "A scare, I believe. Let's get him inside to recover. He ought to be waking shortly."

Dwalin nods and scoops the hobbit up easily. Gandalf frowns – he does not like how fragile Bilbo looks in the light of the day. (And there is the point that Gandalf was the one to push him onto this adventure. He may have anticipated Bilbo changing – but never like this, never to render him so close to the brink of destruction).

Behind them, Kili rises as well.

"Lord Kham," he says, enunciating the advisor's title, "While I will regard this as an unfortunate misunderstanding, bear in mind that this will not be forgotten. Do not presume a second incident will be looked on this kindly."

Dwalin casts a grim smile at Gandalf, when they hear the words as they enter the tent. Gandalf mirrors it, because he has never seen Kili try his hand at politics – but that was not, apparently, for a lack of skill.

"Or course, my prince," the advisor replies.

When Kili rejoins them, all political graveness is gone, and he is once more a worried youngling.

"Will he be alright?" he asks, while Dwalin gently settles Bilbo against the pillows.

Gandalf sighs and allows his shoulders to slump. "As alright as he can be," he replies, because if he is honest to himself, he knows that this has already scarred Bilbo deeply.

Dwalin snorts. "Won't happen if that scum keeps sneaking up on him."

As harsh as his words are, Dwalin keeps his voice soft – and draws a blanket over Bilbo's limb form, even as he continues his complaint. "You didn't see it, but he called out once, and already was running over. I couldn't even say a word, and that scum looks as if he's about to attack our burglar, really. He didn't even notice he'd fainted before he started uttering his questions."

Kili looks horrified. "But why? I mean, that is rude – you wouldn't act like this, much less when…"

"I'm afraid the tale of Bilbo's largest theft has spread," says Gandalf with a deep sigh, "And from what I can tell Dain's troops do not like the idea of somebody trading the Arkenstone."

Kili sucks in a sharp breath.

"Though I do wonder what Bilbo was doing outside in the first place?" Gandalf adds, and looks in askance at Dwalin.

"Said he wanted to catch some fresh air," Dwalin replies, "Seemed steady enough on his feet for it, so I thought it was a good sign."

"It was," Gandalf agrees, even though this spark of hope hurts now that Bilbo's attempt has been so violently snuffed.

"We must tell them," Kili interrupts, "I mean, we must make an announcement – those dwarves shouldn't treat Bilbo like this. They don't know what happened."

"They don't," says Gandalf and the burden on his shoulders grows heavier again, "But it's not that easy, I'm afraid. They may not understand the reasons that inspired Bilbo's actions. And if you tell them of the dragon-sickness, don't you think Dain's advisors would try to claim Erebor for themselves?"

Kili blanches and staggers to a seat, himself. "Oh," he mutters, and suddenly looks very young.

"It was a noble notion," Gandalf adds, "And maybe one day that truth can be proclaimed. Now, however, it seems unfeasible. But, well, worry not too much – after tonight, I doubt any dwarves will approach your burglar that bluntly again."

Gandalf feels both Kili's and Dwalin's eyes wander to him.

"Tonight," he tells them with a heavy heart, "Bilbo will take the Arkenstone in his possession – so that it will no longer be an object of dispute within the council."

Neither Dwalin nor Kili like the announcement. Though when Bilbo shows signs of waking, both willingly vanish – they're painfully aware of what a strain company, especially dwarvish, currently is for their hobbit. And they'd both rather see Bilbo healthy than satisfy their own curiosity.

So Kili vanishes to the tent he shares with his brother, and Gandalf steels himself to expect a small inquisition in the near future. Dwalin returns to his watch outside. If his glower is twice as dark as normal, nobody comments.

* * *

Bilbo is slow to wake, and Gandalf waits with patience. A part of him is terrified at what this quest has wrought on Bilbo. He recalls his determination to change that stuffy hobbit all too well – but somehow this change is beyond anything he dared to imagine, beyond even his nightmares, really.

He doesn't quite know what he was thinking.

Especially when Bilbo looks at him like this – weary, fatigued, but resigned to do his duty. It's not what Gandalf wanted.

"Gandalf," Bilbo says, "Is it evening already?"

"Not yet," the wizard replies and makes certain to keep his voice gentle.

"That's good," Bilbo adds, "Because honestly, I don't want to see that stone ever again."

The wizard watches his charge with a visible frown on his face. Bilbo is reclining against the pillows against his back, eyes directed to the ceiling. With each visit, he seems a little frailer.

"I understand," Gandalf says, "I think they all do, too."

Bilbo sighs. "Balin explained the situation to me. I know there is no choice… I understand it, I really do, and in the end I joined them in order to win them back their home. So stopping this short before the finish would be … quite vexing, I believe."

He manages a small, wistful smile, and Gandalf finds himself amazed at the strength behind it.

"I will do best I can," he promises, "But really..."

Bilbo trails off, staring into the distance. "I'd just like to go home."

_**tbc**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

**Warnings**: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

**AN**: Thank you very much for the lovely feedback. Since some were wondering on "how bad Dain actually is", or how Thorin will deal with it all - it shall all be addressed at some point. This is moving rather slowly, but here is a long chapter, so that we get back to the action sooner rather than later (the majority of this is written out, the only thing I can't make promises for is my updating schedule).

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**Chapter X**

Dusk tints the world in shades of purple and grey. No shadows lengthen under the overcast sky, yet everything grows darker. A hush falls over the camps, as one by one their leaders don their finery and weapons.

The tension grows palpable, while rumors make their rounds. Concerning the Arkenstone, which few of the living men and dwarves here have laid eyes on. Among the elves the stone is a faint memory, a fairytale – and its beauty remains unparalleled. And while not as rare, the hobbit who will take into possession this priceless object is a subject of discussions, too.

Wasn't he the one to steal it?

Hasn't he betrayed the King?

And yet, wasn't he a member of this company? Wasn't he the one to brave Smaug? (And is it true that he does not wear shoes?).

Bilbo does not hear the rumors, but he listens to the fading noises as he dresses in the clothes Gandalf brought him. The finery is heavy and unfamiliar – and not entirely dwarvish, either. Bilbo recognizes some patterns and fabrics, others remain utterly foreign.

He is too exhausted to ask.

Instead he even dons Sting, when Gandalf tells him to.

"It's just for show," the wizard informs him, "You'll be surrounded by warriors – they're expecting you to be armed, too."

Bilbo doubts his letter opener will command much respect. He buttons the thick velvet overcoat, and heavy as it is, he is glad for the warmth it provides.

"Ready?" Gandalf asks.

Bilbo nods, even though he isn't. The trick, he tells himself, is not to think now. He can't accommodate those memories lurking in the back of his mind, neither can he give into the emotions warring in his chest. He hates to be reduced to this, and is too tired to actively change it.

And his wish not to be involved further, to go home and recover, will not be fulfilled. So he closes his eyes, draws a deep breath and follows Gandalf outside.

The camp is silent, though to his surprise he finds Dwalin, Bofur and Bifur waiting. Bofur even smiles encouragingly – but they all make certain not to step too close or to touch Bilbo. Apparently the tale of his encounter this afternoon has spread. And Bilbo doesn't quite know whom to hate for this new development that has forced even those he has no reason to fear to keep their distance.

"We'll be watching your back," Dwalin announces, and his voice draws Bilbo from his thoughts. He can't help the shudder that runs down his spine.

Bifur adds something, and Bofur nods. "It's the least we can do," he says.

Bilbo manages a faint smile, just as Gandalf turns. "It is time."

By the time they arrive, the hosts have assembled. There was no call for them, no need for the soldiers to be here – and yet curiosity drew them in. They are forming a large circle around the four "official" parties already there.

Once Gandalf arrives, they all fall silent. Bilbo keeps his eyes fixed on the ground, following behind the wizard. The atmosphere rests heavily on his shoulders, and his heart is pounding rapidly. He fears what will happen once he looks up – he can't faint again, not now.

Not when somehow Erebor's fate hangs by a thread.

Eventually, the feet Bilbo spies in the corner of his vision fade away. A gust of cold night air caresses his cheeks, and then Gandalf takes a step aside, not forward, and stops. Bilbo steps up beside him, even though his knees feel weak.

He hears Dwalin, Bifur and Bofur stop behind him – and even Gandalf draws back a little.

Never in his life has Bilbo been so exposed. The looks of three large hosts of warriors have come to focus on his form – and never before has he felt so small and unprepared. But he can't think about this now.

Bilbo draws a deep breath and lifts his head.

It's worse than he imagined. In the fading daylight he can't see where the ring of warriors surrounding them ends. Elves, dwarves, men – differentiating between them become impossible in the twilight. The gleam of steal, however, remains notable.

If this goes ill, Bilbo begins to think, and immediately pushes that thought aside.

It cannot, and this is a pressure not only he feels. But also the other four "official" parties.

Opposite to him he finds Bard and Thranduil. They do not stand next to each other, but are backed by an assortment of their own. Bilbo may recognize a number of the elves that surround Thranduil – all armed, even if they are wearing robes instead of armor – yet any memories bring his mind right back to the edge of that dark, dark abyss.

Bard is only accompanied by three other men, two of whom are sporting visible injuries. They make a stark contrast to the elves – their clothes may be of a good make, but compared to Thranduil they seem faded and worn. Bilbo feels Bard's eyes seek out his – they shared friendly words back in Laketown (what feels like another lifetime) – and that may be concern there, and Bard was there when…

Bilbo looks away as fast as he can without moving too abruptly. He is panting, he realizes, and cold sweat covers his palms. Still, he forces himself to keep his back straight.

Dain stands with his advisors, assistants and guards – twenty dwarves, all dressed in polished armor and fine robes. The gemstones on their jewelry glitter even in the fading daylight. Adjacent to them finally stands Thorin, flanked by his nephews and Balin

They look impressive.

Even without a huge entourage, Thorin manages to command the attention of all assembled. Especially, when he steps forward and raises his voice.

"Fellow warriors," he calls out, "We have fought together for a bitter victory. And on this night, we will take one step further to make permanent this hard-won peace."

It is good that all are looking elsewhere. Bilbo's head spins, and it's all he can do to keep standing. His heart flutters nervously in his chest, and a part of his mind screeches at him to run as far as possible.

"Ere the goblins and orcs set upon us," Thorin continues, unaware and too far away to notice Bilbo's plight, "We found ourselves at an impasse, at this self-same place. A dear member of my company then took it upon himself to resolve this – the hobbit Bilbo Baggins traded the Arkenstone so that we would have peace."

There is a hush. This story does not match the rumors – but then there are many, and Bilbo doesn't dare to analyze the changes now. Neither can he look at Thorin.

Bilbo's fingers tremble and he's glad for the long sleeves of the coat. He forces himself to keep his head up, directs his gaze at a patch of sky over Thorin's head and hopes he does not look as lost as he feels. Even with Gandalf and Bofur only steps away, he is alone in this.

As long as tensions run this high they can't even dare to speak to him.

"From now on peace will no longer rely on this bargaining chip," Thorin declares, "Negotiations may continue, but as we all, as this battle has proven, fight on the same side, we can settle this as equals. And for this sake, tonight, the Arkenstone will be returned into the custody of Master Baggins."

Thorin is looking at him, now, as are probably a thousand more eyes.

Bilbo can't breathe. The sky, he thinks, the sky has grown rather dark –

"Until peace has been settled," Thorin adds, "Then, and only then, the Arkenstone may yet again change hands."

Whatever blood was left in his face drains away. Bilbo knows he can't look to Gandalf, can't scream or protest – can't even reach up to loosen his collar. Too many eyes are watching his every movement far too closely.

"Until peace has settled," Bard repeats, and Thranduil inclines his head in agreement. On the other side of the field, Dain mirrors the movement with a smirk on his face.

Watching Dain, Bilbo almost misses how one of the elves steps forward. When he catches sight of the non-descript, yet familiar box, he feels faint. An echo of a memory rises in the back of his mind – hands gripping the collar of his jacket, his own feet dangling over an abyss – and the condemning curse of "betrayer".

Bilbo shudders. The elf is headed toward him, so he forces himself to step forward as well.

They meet half-way.

The elf looks unperturbed, his face vaguely familiar – but his calmness is all the more striking since Bilbo feels like he is coming apart. Fraying at the seams. He can't breathe under the thousands of watchful eyes and the weight of rumors and expectations.

The elf holds out chest and Bilbo's fingers tremble when he reaches out to receive it.

He feels the more than the weight of the Arkenstone settle on his shoulders. There is a touch of fate to this – within his hands he holds, quite literally, Erebor's future. And this responsibility is something he would not have been willing to bear had he been hale.

Now, however, he has to lock his knees to keep from collapsing on the spot.

"Until we have peace," Bilbo murmurs into the deafening silence and the wind carries his words across the field.

The way back is, perhaps, worse. Attention drifts away from him once Gandalf and Dwalin flank him, and hide him from the spectators' gazes. Chatter rises, and the convention of soldiers begins to drift apart. With each step however, the world around Bilbo spins a little faster, and he can't hear what Gandalf is saying over the pounding of his own heart.

Darkness rises at the corners of his vision.

He hurries his step, and if he stumbles before he vanishes into his tent, Dwalin and Gandalf keep him obscured from curious onlookers. His mind is spinning – he can't even form coherent thoughts anymore. Snatches of memory mingle with pieces of nightmares, and he can't quite breathe deep enough.

The chest falls from his hand with a dull thud.

Bilbo drops to his knees before it, though the world is askew and he isn't certain if he is really on his knees. His own blood is too loud, his pulse too fast – and there may be somebody shouting his name in the background – but now, away from all, he allows himself to finally collapse.

* * *

Once this nightmare has concluded, Thorin retreats into the small tent serving as his personal space concurrently. He does not look back, nor reply to any of the questions thrown his way. Keeping his back straight and his face even takes up every bit of self-possession he can gather.

Only when the fabric has closed behind him, he allows himself to fall into a chair, and bury his face in his hands.

Had he not thought himself incapable of sinking any further?

Yet he has stepped out there, denied his own deeds, twisted the tale, lied and pushed all the responsibility on the shoulders of one hobbit. One particular hobbit, that Thorin already owes far too much.

A shudder runs down his spine.

He had not dared to look at Bilbo for long. But what he saw made his chest clench with guilt and horror. When he closes his eyes, he still can see the limp body Dwalin pulled from that thrice-cursed chest.

The gasp he has to stifle is lost, when somebody enters the tent.

Thorin glances up with glare, wondering who would dare to disturb him – and finds Balin staring down, his lips a thin line.

"As I did not find you before," Balin says and his voice is sharp and hard, "You ought to know that the chest was destroyed."

Guilt has coiled itself so tightly around Thorin's mind, that he needs a minute to sort out Balin's words.

"You…," he blinks.

Balin frowns. "It needed to be done. If somebody found it, it could too easily be used against you."

Nail marks, Kili had shouted, Thorin remembers. Nail marks.

He thinks of being trapped in such a small, dark space, scratching at the surface. How blinding must the terror have been to claw at such unforgiving wood? How far gone Bilbo not to notice the pain?

Thorin swallows bitterly and hangs his head.

"Should I abdicate?" he mutters under his breath. Because Erebor is not worth this.

He won that kingdom so his kin could live in peace. This is not peace at all.

When Balin remains silent, he repeats himself, a little louder. "Should I do it? Let Dain have the crown…"

Balin snorts. "You don't want that. Nobody wants that. And you know just as well as I do, that if you abdicate, it won't be Fili on the throne next.

"We could name somebody else from the company," Thorin suggests, even though he knows its futile. Naming somebody – especially should it be not a noble – is perhaps the easiest way to ignite a rebellion. Or a coup.

"They would never accept that," says Balin, "Also, you need to be aware that if they can successfully claim you to be under the spell of dragon-sickness, it will be easy to pin the same onto the rest of us as well."

Thorin remains silent.

"It is lucky, I suppose," Balin continues darkly, "That Master Baggins holds us this dear in spite of everything. I can't think of any other who would have risked heart and health for those that would have left them to die."

There is no denying that Balin is right. Though something strikes Thorin as odd. "But Gandalf agreed to this as well. Doesn't he…?"

"He certainly knows we do not deserve this. No, I believe the wizard is well aware of what is happening," replies Balin, "And relies on Bilbo's kindness in this just as much as we do."

* * *

After having, once again, settled an unconscious hobbit against the pillows, Gandalf and Dwalin leave the tent. The wizard is lost in thought – he does not like Bilbo's pallor, nor the way the hobbit seems to be shrinking under all the burdens piled upon him. And he does not like his own part in this – for being the one having brought Bilbo hear, and lately, having allowed for Bilbo to receive the Arkenstone. But with too much going on, even he was hard pressed to find a better solution.

He's gladdened that Dwalin has taken Bilbo's security to his heart. It won't be long until he will be sought out by sycophants and intrigue – at least Dwalin may scare away a few of them.

"Master Gandalf," a new voice cuts through his thoughts.

The wizard glances up and realizes he hasn't even noticed Fili and Kili approach. Both dwarves have stripped off the most ostentatious of their finery, yet they are still conspicuous. Also, the way Fili is leaning on his younger brother casts heavy aspersions on the straight stance he presented on the field.

They're all acting in a charade that is not helping one of them.

Gandalf nods at the two young dwarves.

"How is he?" Kili asks, concern plain on his face.

Gandalf sighs. "Not too good. I hope he'll sleep through the night, for once. He needs the rest."

Fili nods. "He will. Tomorrow, I suppose, we can expect Dain's advisors to go and seek him out."

Dwalin growls at this. Yet they all know, their combined efforts to help Bilbo could not protect him from the chest that now sits innocently in a corner of the tent.

* * *

The night does not pass well.

Twice Bilbo wakes, sweat-soaked and screaming. His nightmares are growing clearer. And they always, always include Thorin's face twisted in fury.

One time he's dropped and falls, and falls and falls until he ends in a space so small he can neither move nor breathe. The next time Thorin pushes him down, steadily further down until all light fades and his hands close around Bilbo's throat.

Bilbo doesn't even know what he is screaming for anymore. It may for help, it may be a plea for Thorin to relent – regardless of what, no matter how often he sees those visions, the pain in his chest does not abate.

(He does not know, that at one point Thorin's feet have carried him, once more, to Bilbo's tent – without any idea of how to help, but wishing to do so. He cannot sleep listening to those screams; not without remembering.

Dwalin turns him away with a shake of his head.)

The third time, Bilbo dreams of the chest. Though it looks rather like a coffin, and he can't move at all. There are no footsteps in this dream. Neither does the lid open – only the air keeps growing hotter, and hotter, and Bilbo knows he will die here …

And then he opens his eyes to the pre-dawn light filling his tent.

His heart is racing, and the only sensible thought his mind can come up with is a desire for fresh air. He can't stay inside, no matter how weak his body is.

Blindly, with his vision fading in and out, he stumbles outside, until finally cold air hits his face.

Bilbo draws a deep breath and allows the cold to spread through his body, calming his frantic pulse and mind. He is not in that horrible chest – his body shivers at the notion itself – he stands under a wide, open sky.

It's not hot and suffocating either.

And very slowly, his mind begins to clear. He doesn't dare touching those memories that have been invoked in gruesome detail in his nightmares. Instead, he lets his gaze wander across the camp. Silence lingers, since most soldiers remain asleep, and only a few are already up, preparing the day's work.

The plain remains barren, though the corpses have been removed. Erebor is a dark shape against a s brightening sky. And the air retains the cold bite of night.

Back in the Shire, he thinks suddenly, he would have enjoyed a morning like this. The sky is clear, and watching the sun rise has always been one of his small joys of life.

Not it feels like a very shaky source of contentment.

And somewhere, deep beneath all the confusion, terror and uproar still possessing him, he feels angry. Angry, that he can't enjoy what he used to anymore. Angry, that he can't face his memories – that he has been reduced to this.

"Master Baggins," says another voice.

Abruptly all anger vanishes and Bilbo jumps. Though when he looks over his shoulder he finds Dwalin standing a short distance away, watching him.

"Are you not going back inside?" he inquires.

Bilbo takes a deep breath to steady his fluttering nerves again. It's horrible how just a simple call in his direction unravels him. How he can't even hold onto any emotion other than terror for very long.

He shakes his head. "No, I don't think so."

It may be cold enough out here to make him shiver, but it is better than the stuffy warmth on the inside. The warmth threatens to unearth too many memories. And monsters he can't face. Not when they are already waiting for the moment he dares to close his eyes again.

"Well," says Dwalin, "Then at least take this."

He holds out what looks like a fur-covered blanket. Bilbo realizes he is in little more than a long nightshirt which is neither appropriate for the weather, nor for their surroundings. With a shrug he accepts the garment and wraps around his shoulders.

It's too large and trails on the ground, yet Bilbo can't quite bring himself to care. Neither does Dwalin's observant gaze bother him much while he watches the sky.

"You need to be careful," he says after a while.

Bilbo nods. The moment he agreed (though he never had a choice, did he?) to take part in this political gambit, he placed himself straight at the center of the power play.

"Not only because of that," Dwalin nods into the direction of the tent, "But I doubt the rumors will be quelled that easily."

And Thorin's words last night did not clear up the confusion. Bilbo can't quite decide whether he would have wanted Thorin to straight out lie about his theft of the Arkenstone or just speak the truth. He doesn't think he would have survived either.

Naturally, rumors of the Arkenstone's theft – of his betrayal – linger.

"So just, when you go out like this, make sure you don't go alone," Dwalin says while Bilbo thinks about what dwarves do to traitors, "Make certain either Bifur or myself are with you. Gandalf, too, in case neither of us is available."

He looks so pleading Bilbo has to let go of his nightmarish vision, and whispers an "Alright" in reply. Then they fall silent and watch the sun rise.

* * *

Bilbo does not feel like going back into the tent. His pulse has settled, and while he still feels exhausted, he dreads sleeping. And the box in his tent.

Instead, he sets out for a walk, Dwalin following him. They don't make it very far, before they run into Dain and his advisors, on their way to council.

"I hear you are suffering from night terrors," says Dain.

Bilbo wants to grimace at this. Instead he forces a self-depreciating smile. "The entire camp will have heard that, by now," he replies, and likes the way Dain's advisors stiffen at this.

"One wonders what may have caused them," one of the advisors – Loni, Bilbo thinks his name is – wonders aloud. Dain remains observant, and doesn't check what Bilbo feels is a question too personal. Behind him, Dwalin stiffens.

But Bilbo has fended off enough relatives while feeling less than his best, and he won't let himself be intimidated by these dwarves – there are already enough things he fears.

"A dragon, among a number of other incidents," Bilbo responds calmly. It's a nice reminder that Dain and his men had no part in slaying the dragon – or the entire quest, to be quite honest. And it's not even a lie – Smaug has featured in Bilbo's nightmares – though they do not need to know that this wasn't recently.

And indeed, Dain's advisors pick up on the thinly veiled accusation. There's some whispering in Khuzdul, which leaves Bilbo utterly unimpressed – really, he may not understand them, but they certainly aren't inspiring any confidence here – and Dwalin growls.

Eventually, another advisor – this one clad in a dark red fur robe – steps forward. "And, we believe, Lord Thorin's behavior has probably not helped matters?"

The dwarf goes too far on several instances, and from the corner of his eye Bilbo sees Dwalin reach for the grip of his axe. The motion does not go unnoticed – but it is perhaps only Dain and Dwalin who see Bilbo's signal for Dwalin to remain.

"His majesty," says Bilbo with emphasis, because Thorin is King under the mountain, not a mere lord, as these dwarves would wish him to be, "reacted to a perceived betrayal."

"Yet it was perceived. And I believe your efforts were repaid quite harshly," protests the advisor.

Bilbo feels his patience run thin. The entire issue dances dangerously close to those memories he can't yet touch – but he can't allow these dwarves to see that.

"Even a perceived betrayal will feel like a real one," replies Bilbo since he believes that Thorin would have been angered even without the spell of dragon-sickness had Bilbo secretly traded the Arkenstone to his enemy, "The rest of the matter is between ourselves."

"My cousin still appears rather grieved by whatever occurred," Dain weights in, a curious glint in his eyes, "It must have been rather bad."

Bilbo silently counts to three, and forces his trembling hands behind his back. He hopes he can retain his calm façade under Dain's inquisitive gaze.

"Yes, well," Bilbo replies, managing to makes his voice sound almost light, "It was rather harsh, indeed."

"I have been told he held you over the parapets by your neck and threatened to throw you down," Dain says bluntly.

This time Bilbo can't stop himself from grimacing. He isn't quite certain if the words make it sound worse or better than it was – they certainly can't encompass the suffocating emotions Bilbo felt then.

"He did," Bilbo replies, deciding to be just as direct.

"He threatened to kill you?" Loni exclaims, scandalized.

Dwalin shifts his weight, and Bilbo glares at Loni, though he is rather thankful for the opening. "Well, he thought he was betrayed. I had been given to understand that betrayal is not a crime taken lightly among dwarves – I believe under other circumstances," he casts a meaningful glance at Dain's company, "I would have found myself dead sooner rather than later."

Dain stiffens at that. It's almost imperceptible, but Bilbo catches it.

"Anyhow," Bilbo continues politely – in the same tone he used to get Lobelia out of his door -, "I believe this is between his Highness and myself. Good morning."

_**tbc**_


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

Warnings: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

AN: Thank you very much for the lovely feedback. I am currently traveling, which means I'm not good at updating or getting back to reviews or messages - please bear with me for a little longer. I should be back to the normal crazy around mid august. XD

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**Chapter XI**

"Stay down – you need to rest," Kili protests, but Fili won't listen.

His body aches fiercely, and its infirmity is what kept him in his cot, even when he had first Dain address Bilbo. Neither Dain not his advisors must have been aware just whose tent they had been standing behind – both him and Kili had shared a tense look, before resolving to keep their silence.

It had been close, though.

Especially when that advisor had attempted to bear down on Bilbo – amazingly their hobbit had deflected the inquiries and sounded utterly composed.

Which is a mask, as far as Fili can tell, and he fear what is hidden underneath. So the moment he sees Bilbo return to his own tent, followed closely by Dwalin, he is on his feet.

And even though Kili protests, Fili knows his brother, too, longs to run over and make certain their burglar is alright. Last night already was too much – Fili does not like to indulge those memories. Standing next to his uncle had been a challenge; both for his healing body and his mind (because how does he treat Thorin, knowing what he knows?)

He stumbles forward, leaning heavily on Kili. Together they navigate the short distance, paying little attention to the glances cast their way. Fili whisks the tent flap back, relived (because the pain in his leg remains debilitating, even if Kili bears most of his weight).

They're greeted with a choked scream from Bilbo, and Dwalin's hand is on the handle of his axe before he recognizes them. It takes a moment for the scene to register with Fili – Bilbo propped up on the bed, cheeks flushed and Dwalin kneeling before him – then his blood runs cold and his determination renews itself.

Dwalin glares at them before turning back to Bilbo, telling him to calm down, and not to "mind Dain, because they won't bother you again. I won't let them – they should have known better in first place. You don't need to worry about a thing. They will never approach you again."

Bilbo is gasping for air, breathing to fast, and shaking his head.

Fili can't tell if Bilbo even comprehends what Dwalin is saying, but he has to take his chances.

"Master Baggins," he calls, interrupting Dwalin as he sinks onto a stool behind him, "Bilbo."

Kili stays at his side, radiating confusion. Fili ignores him for the time, rather satisfied that Bilbo lifts his head and looks at him. The hobbit's eyes are huge, filled with receding panic, and brimming with tears.

Fili purses his lips. "Sorry for barging in like this – but we overheard what happened."

Bilbo flinches and Fili senses Kili and Dwalin tense.

"As Dwalin said, they had no right to approach you like they did," Fili says, and then adopts a grim smile, "But neither are you required to answer them. Furthermore…"

He wets his lips. "Furthermore, if you decide to answer, you can tell them whatever you want to."

Kili blinks, and Fili feels Dwalin turn his head to stare. He leans forward. "Whatever. Lie to them; tell them the truth - that is your choice."

"But…" Bilbo's voice is shaky, "the truth…"

"Would expose what Thorin did, yes," Fili replies, "But what about it? Why should you lie to cover up what he did? You certainly don't owe him allegiance."

Bilbo remains hesitant. Fili is somewhat glad to see him contemplate his words, though he isn't entirely certain the hobbit has understood his point yet. Dwalin and Kili aren't moving – at least Dwalin probably did not expect Fili to encourage Bilbo in this direction.

"You have every right to demand justice be served," Fili tells Bilbo.

The hobbit sighs and plucks at his blanket.

"What Thorin did was punishable by our laws. He will accept whatever punishment you or a court in your stead will bestow upon him," Fili says.

Bilbo looks back at him. "I know…" he mutters and sounds utterly exhausted, "I know I could do that, and, well, right now it even seems as if nobody would begrudge it if I did."

"Then you should do it," Kili adds, softly.

Bilbo shakes his head. "I can't."

Nobody voices the question and Bilbo manages an empty smile. "Because if I did, Dain would become King of Erebor. They'd accuse all of you of being dragon-sick, and then Dain would be King of Erebor, and I don't even know if he'd pay back Bard or the elves or if they'd not just start another war and…"

"Shush," Dwalin tells him. It's telling that he does not touch Bilbo, even if he is close enough to do so. The hobbit slumps, "I can't," he mutters.

"Well, they wouldn't be wrong," Kili says suddenly, "I mean, we probably all went a little weird over the gold – they wouldn't be wrong with their accusations."

"But you'd lose Erebor," Bilbo protests.

Kili shrugs. "But we'd deserve it."

Even Fili is taken aback at the ease with which his brother is willing to lose his birthright. Dwalin says nothing, but the light in his eyes holds a degree of admiration.

"I mean it," Kili adds, "We were wrong, and ought to owe up to it. Instead you're the one suffering, just so we don't lose our gold. You don't need to cover up for us – we'll… we'll have to deal with the consequences."

Fili swallows, his chest oddly tight. Kili has the right of it, he knows, but losing their kingdom over this leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He wants justice for Bilbo and to keep their kingdom – although currently it seems impossible for both to happen.

Bilbo relaxes and eventually looks up at Kili and Fili again. "That… well, that…"

He shakes his head. "It's alright," he mutters, "I don't … I don't like covering up, as you said, but I don't want Dain to rule Erebor either. It's not what I signed on for…"

Fili finds his brother looks about ready to cry and Dwalin is consciously not moving a muscle. It would be funny if his own heart wasn't trembling as well. Trust Bilbo to make his eyes burn.

The hobbit seems unaware of what his words are doing to his small audience. "I promised I'd help you take back your home," he says and as soft as his voice is, there is determination behind it, "And I would be betraying my own goal if I let it slip from you now, wouldn't I?"

Before either Fili or Dwalin can react, Kili has thrown his arms around Bilbo. There's a choked-off exclamation, Fili sees Bilbo stiffen, but Kili does not release him. Instead Kili clutches Bilbo tightly to his chest and buries his face in the crook of Bilbo's neck until the hobbit eventually relaxes.

Still, Bilbo's hands tremble when they come up to pat Kili's back.

Fili feels shaky on his own feet when he rises. His heart rejoices to hear Bilbo sides with them – will do what he can to affirm their claim to the kingdom, and yet he fears that the price is too high. Already this has put more of a strain on Bilbo than all the orcs they encountered did together.

And he fears what is to come.

* * *

Dain strides into Thorin's tent unannounced. It's both a breach of protocol and an invocation of their prior familiarity. Thorin stiffens – after last night he does not know whether or not he can trust his cousin to back him.

"I met your hobbit," Dain proclaims with a smirk.

Thorin tries to stop himself from reacting, but can't suppress a flinch. He only hopes the fear on his face remained concealed.

"Quite an interesting fellow, if I may say so," Dain continues, "Talked loops around my advisors, and I have to admit, instead of answering my own questions, I find my curiosity even further piqued. But perhaps, dear cousin, you can help me?"

Thorin raises an eyebrow, even though his insides clench He can't deny Dain like this, not when he is invoking their relation – yet the glint in Dain's eyes makes him wary. There is a kingdom on the line, and a crime to cover.

"I'll try my best, though to speak the truth, Master Baggins has also puzzled me on more than one occasion," Thorin replies.

"I am inclined to believe that," Dain says, "But I have to admit, what interests me are far more recent events. And, to spare us further grief and misunderstandings during negotiations, I would have you tell me the truth, cousin."

Thorin does not reply. Instead he inclines his head for Dain to continue.

"The hobbit bartered the Arkenstone to prevent a confrontation – without your leave, as far as I understand it," Dain says, "So he did breach his contract, did he not? I understand if you aim to protect him, but …"

Thorin holds up his hand. "You may put it like this, cousin," he can't help emphasizing the word, invoking the same familiarity Dain has done, "But it is not the truth."

"What, then, is the truth?" Dain asks.

Thorin shrugs. "A misunderstanding," he says and it sounds shallow to his own ears. But it is the best explanation he can come up with unless he wants to reveal the true extend of desperation, desolation and sheer madness of those days, "Master Baggins contractually owes one fourteenth of all the treasure – he was never informed he could not chose the Arkenstone for himself."

"But did he understand the value of the Arkenstone?" Dain raises an eyebrow.

"Only as far as it could serve in a trade," Thorin replies.

"And yet you threatened to kill him for it," Dain says.

Thorin has to rely on century-old lessons to keep his expression straight. He can still feel the soft flesh of the hobbit's neck under his fingers, hear the wind howling around them – see the chest, and the limp figure they had pulled from it.

"War was on my doorstep. And it appeared one of my own had betrayed me," Thorin replies.

Dain leans forward. "He told me much the same, cousin. And also told me that by tradition our laws would have perhaps warranted a much harsher punishment."

Thorin's blood runs cold. Dain has the truth of this – death for traitors is to be either instantaneous or unimaginably cruel (and yet not as cruel as the fate Thorin almost condemned Bilbo to. A traitor's death is public, shameful and painful. It is not to be forgotten in a chest too small to allow much movement, to pass away alone in the darkness).

"Though I suppose it might have not been wise to deal that judgment right then and there," Dain continues, "Especially if, as the word goes, Gandalf, Bard and Thranduil were watching. They are all rather fond of the Halfling, aren't they?"

Thorin agrees to this, though he does not like the glint in Dain's eyes.

"Fairly unsurprising – who wouldn't be fond of the one handing you your opponent's heart on a golden plate?" the other King adds.

Thorin sucks in a sharp breath and stiffens. "What are you implying?"

Dain shrugs. "Not much. But it is something I can't help thinking about – whose interests is Master Baggins protecting? Your actions then may have given him little cause for loyalty, and yet you had no qualms to offer him the Arkenstone."

"Also," Dain tilts his head, "When he first brought the stone to your opponents, what cause did he have? Why did he choose to go behind your back at that time? Are you certain you can trust him?"

There is nothing Thorin can say. Because Bilbo's reason is the dragon-sickness that lasted so heavily on his entire company – and if Thorin reveals it, Dain has every reason to declare him unfit to rule.

He can't say a word. And instead has to accept that regardless of how much Bilbo sacrificed for Erebor, very few dwarves will ever recognize his actions for what they were.

* * *

"Master Balin," a familiar voice calls and the white-bearded dwarf turns.

Bard catches up to him, and waves his company to retreat. It's unusual, and already Balin fears many inquisitive and gauging stares come to rest upon them. He slips into a comfortable place, subtly steering Bard from the crowd while the exchange pleasantries – until they reach one of the places where they may be watched, but not overheard.

Bard is not familiar with this and only commends the "nice view".

"I am rather concerned for Master Baggins," Bard admits after a while, "I only saw him during the exchange, and he did not look very well then. I was under the impression he was not involved in the battle?"

Balin purses his lips. The question accidentally forces his hand, and he knows better than to provide details that may later be proven false. "His injuries were not grave, but put severe strain on his mind, I am afraid to say," Balin replies, because he will not confirm the origin of Bilbo's injuries, "Which is why he was recommended rest and a degree of quietude."

Bard frowns. "That is ill indeed. I would have liked to talk to him…"

"Perhaps soon," Balin replies.

"Personally, I am willing to accept that. When I saw Master Baggins last night I thought he needed rest, and much of it," Bard replies, "However, here I am not only representing my own interests. And as Master Baggins is the one to guarantee peace, I feel keeping him hidden may not be in our best interests. Already there are some ugly rumors brewing."

Balin does not sigh. He has expected this – only had hoped for some more time. The moment they handed Bilbo the Arkenstone he has become a player on this board, and can no longer recuperate in quietude. They need him back out; no matter if he is ready or not. Balin knows this as a politician, but as a friend he can't help feeling appalled. He knows Bilbo will be able to play his part, to fulfill all expectations, yet he does dare to think what it may cost him.

"I understand," he tells Bard, "What kind of rumors are you speaking about?"

"Nothing fixed yet," Bard says, "There is some speculation on whether he is truly a neutral party, but as many of my men have witnessed what happened on the parapets, they are willing to put some trust in him."

At least somebody does, Balin thinks, recalling the dwarven warriors from Dain's host that keep muttering words like thief and traitor.

* * *

Thorin stares at the letters in front of him, yet they fail to make sense. Their script is but blurry lines and incomprehensible symbols, while his minds spirals into darker and darker spaces. His heart is pounding and no matter how desperately he turns the situation over, there is no way out of it.

This will not be won with honesty and trust. The gold has not only blurred his own priorities; the dragon's inheritance is doing its best to doom all of them. Thranduil, so concerned over his share, is no different. Neither is Bard, though he may need the gold to rebuild Dale.

He has not set foot into Erebor's treasury since that horrible morning, and yet the memory is of the glittering gold still exudes a subtle magic. One reveals its darkness the moment Thorin recalls the chest that almost became a coffin.

He swallows. Outside, life goes on. The tension is low, hard to notice currently, yet it will not take much for the situation to boil over. And there is little he can do.

(Thorin would pay Bard and Thranduil, if he did not have to fear Dain questioning his sanity. Now that he is willing, he can't – and he wants to cry for it all has become so twisted).

There is one thing, however, he can do.

It may not be a particularly good idea, he thinks as his feet carry him outside. Gandalf had bidden him to stay away, and he recalls the panicked look in Bilbo's eyes all too well. Dwalin's glare, and Balin's disappointment. Kili's horror and Fili's unhappiness.

But a little bit of honesty among all this madness, he hopes, will help.

Nobody is guarding the entrance to Bilbo's tent which is odd, but not unwelcome. Thorin announces himself before he enters, pulling aside the fabric with sweat-covered palms. His heart is pounding madly, and does not think he has ever been so afraid.

Gandalf glares at him, calls out a sharp "What do you want?" and steps forward to ward Thorin back. Dwalin does his best to block him from view, and Thorin does not catch what is said.

"Did I not tell you to wait?" Gandalf asks, "Do you want to cause further harm? Do you…"

"Gandalf!" a hoarse voice cries out, and the wizard falls silent. With a sigh he straightens and lets Thorin step past.

Bilbo is as white as the sheets he rests upon and trembling all over. Thorin swallows – this is what he caused, this is the consequence of his action. This is his fault.

Dwalin shifts on his feet, the dark expression on his face spurring Thorin into action.

He sinks to his knees, still far, far away from the cot.

"Master Baggins…" Thorin sets out, "I… there are no words to apologize for what I did. If I could, I would make it undone, take back every unkind word I ever said to you. I would…"

Bilbo makes an odd, choked sound in his throat and Thorin falls silent. He feels dizzy, weak, while Bilbo visibly pulls himself together; pupils blown large and his hair sticks to his forehead from sweat.

"No," he cries, "No. You don't get to … to … explain and walk from this. You don't. No. I'm not going to forgive this."

Thorin clenches his fists. His eyes burn, and his heart hurts much worse than any injury he recalls. "I'm not asking you to …"

"Do you expect me to forgive you? This? Forgive you this when I… look at me, I can't even talk about it or think it," the words are accompanied by a harsh, hysterical laugh, "Do you even know what you've done?"

Bilbo is shouting now, but everybody else is frozen stiff. Abruptly he pushes himself forward, screaming into Thorin's direction.

"You have no idea! Look at what you have done to me! What you've reduced me to! I can't even speak to you without having to fear my own memories! I can't sleep – and if I ever get home I'll be afraid of my own closet!" Bilbo voice hitches, but he carries on, forcing the words out, "When somebody walks up to me I get scared half to death if I don't faint on the spot – how am I supposed to even go back like this?"

Thorin trembles. "I did not mean for this to happen," sounds so shallow he does not even dare to utter the words.

"But I can't go back, can I?" Bilbo adds, acidly, "I can't, not until you and Thranduil and Bard have settled that childish feud. Until then they'll all hound my steps and watch my every move and not let me breathe and I can't even dare thinking of going home. Or speak my mind. Or go out on my own. And, oh yes, I can't tell anyone what happened either."

Hysteria colors Bilbo's voice, but the words cut through Thorin like knifes. "Perhaps to you that piece of rock is worth it, but don't come to me explaining things, Thorin Oakenshield. Not when you don't even begin to understand what you did – leaving me in that box, and now… now expecting me to hold onto that accursed stone for you, to dance to your tune. You could've left me in there, and I'd have the same amount of freedom, minus being hounded by your cousin's advisors. Really, if you'd just let go on…"

"Bilbo!" Gandalf shouts, interrupting the mad stream of words.

The hobbit falls silent, swaying and panting. Thorin can't breathe, a sob stuck in his throat. Bilbo may not have completed his sentence, but he knows the end anyway – "why did you not just kill me? I would have been gladder for it".

Apparently not even Gandalf knew how deep the damage runs, as he looks shaken. "Bilbo," he repeats, calmer now, "Settle down. The healers cautioned you against letting yourself grow this upset, I believe. Perhaps you…"

Bilbo shakes his head, and the wizard falls silent. With his head bowed, Thorin awaits further words. In the back of his mind he recalls the first evaluations; hears the healer saying "I don't like how weak his pulse is".

And Bilbo does look as if it would not take much to make him shatter completely, now.

"Leave me, please," he says, eventually, "You too, Gandalf. You expect me to play my part, and I will do so, but you know I don't want to. You know I want nothing more than to go home – why could you not have taken the Arkenstone? Why did you not stop Thorin then? You knew what was happening."

Thorin feels the ground drop away. He has not thought about the wizard's part in this – but now, he can't help but wonder how much the wizard did know about the gold-sickness?

Gandalf appears speechless, though he recovers after a beat. "You know I did not mean you any harm, Bilbo. I never have, and had I known what…"

But Bilbo shakes his head. "Don't, Gandalf," he says, "You too, Thorin. Don't … apologize for things you would not have done differently anyhow. Just … just leave me some peace tonight. I'll play my part, but tonight I'd rather be alone."

_**tbc**_


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

Warnings: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

AN: Thank you very, very much for reading and reviewing! I try to get back to any direct questions, but feel free to poke me if I miss or overlook anything. Updates currently drag a bit as my schedule's rather busy and there just isn't enough time?

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**Chapter XII**

Thorin spends the evening in a trance.

Bilbo's words won't stop echoing in his mind. Over and over again it repeats: his fingers clenching around the soft flesh of Bilbo's throat, the lifeless body they pulled from the chest and a pale, shaken hobbit telling him that he doesn't even begin to understand what he did.

Thorin fears he is right.

As much as he regrets his actions, he only understands that he cannot apologize, because apologizing suggests earning forgiveness, and there can be not forgiveness for what he did. It doesn't even matter what Gandalf could have done, because in the end, it was Thorin, whose hands dragged Bilbo over the parapets and into the chest.

It doesn't matter that he was out of his mind, either. (This only means Bilbo's final words were true. Under the spell of the gold-sickness, Thorin would not have acted differently).

His gaze keeps going out of focus – he has long since given on reading the correspondence piled high on his desk. The lack of rest and food has rendered him beyond exhausted; and somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes this.

Yet on the forefront there is only Bilbo and his own growing desperation. He cannot undo what has been done, he cannot do anymore to help. If it was desired, he would make a public apology, offer his own head – but the first is not desired, and the second not possible.

How can he atone for what he did? How can he even begin to do so when Bilbo grows pale the moment he sees Thorin? When his friends glare at him, and everybody else expects him to be a just and upright ruler?

There is much clouding his mind, and when Thorin gets to his feet, he does not look where he is going. Night has fallen, and the wind carries the faint echoes of more than one drinking song. The smell of food does no longer turn his stomach, but he feels no hunger, either.

Winter will come soon, though tonight the air is mild. It will be winter and then they'll be dependent on Laketown and Mirkwood and Dain for food. Paying for these will not be a problem from Erebor's covers, yet his hold on the mountain is far less certain than when Smaug had dwelt within it.

His feet take him uphill, over ancient, damaged staircases and past the remains of the carved guardian statues. Bifur and Dori greet him, yet Thorin does not hear it. Once again, the images rise in his mind.

He does not know how to atone. How can he, when he barely understands what he has done?

* * *

Perhaps it is because Dori rarely ever raises his voice that it carries. The night has grown late when Dori approaches Dwalin who is guarding a familiar tent. His step is hurried, his demeanor urgent.

"I was looking for your brother," he says, gasping for breath, "Thorin … Thorin went into the mountain. To the crypts…"

He has to take another gulp of air and misses how Dwalin's fingers tighten around the grip of his axe. "He asked, no, he ordered Bifur to seal him in one of the coffins."

Dwalin curses loudly.

"He's stayed with him," Dori hurries to add, "Made sure he got some air and let me know as soon as possible. But it's … Dwalin, that's madness. You have to talk him out of it! You or your brother, you're the only ones Thorin will listen to!"

He does not say that Thorin may very well listen to his nephews. They would both rather keep them away from this new disaster.

* * *

The princes remain asleep, yet Bilbo, for whom sleep has become an elusive commodity, is not. If he finds sleep, nightmares will come, so sometimes it is just enough to rest his eyes and let his mind drift away to better places. The soft lull of drinking songs and chatter from the outside helps –

Only tonight, the voices are familiar and there is no joy in the words.

And when he hears of what Thorin has done, Bilbo feels his own heart crumble.

For long, precious moments Bilbo remains on his cot, eyes fixed upon the canopy above. His thoughts are racing, and his heart is pounding too loud and too fast. He cannot say how he feels, and now he does not even know how to feel.

If those horrible words are true…

If Thorin has really sealed himself in the crypts…

Memories of suffocating darkness rise again, freezing and terrible, threatening to blank Bilbo's mind completely. His body trembles, and he bites down on his lip. Forces the memories away and rises.

Does he go?

Does he stay, try to sleep and pretend he did not hear what he was not supposed to hear?

I can't, is what Bilbo then realizes. And knowing that this may not be for the better, that this may cause further harm, he slips on his ring and sneaks from his tent.

The camp lies silent. From afar echoes the sound of laughter and singing and the wind carries the smell of roasted meat. Bilbo feels a faint spark of hunger, but it's more a memory of better days – of roasted meat eaten under the Shire's Party Tree on the long evenings in late summer – than actual hunger. He has not been hungry in a very, very long time.

Few are about in this part of the camp, though, and Bilbo might have passed unnoticed even without his ring. But as his face is known – as he is a public figure in this as the one to possess the Arkenstone – he cannot move openly.

The ring truly is an unexpected blessing.

He can't see anybody else making their way uphill towards Erebor's gate, and wonders how much time he spent lost in his own head. A cold shiver runs down his spine, but in the blurry darkness it is difficult to recognize the familiar shapes of Erebor's gate.

Instead of thinking on what happened the last time he entered the mountain – Bilbo takes a deep breath and hastens his steps. He only allows himself a short wish of being able to exit again, as soon as possible.

Then he is inside.

The grand hall lies silent and the cold air makes Bilbo shiver. A breeze gusts over his arms, like the ghost of hands wrapping around them, and his shoulder twinges.

The crypts, Bilbo reminds himself.

At least those are not in the same direction as the treasury, Bilbo thinks to himself. It does not make descending deeper into the mountain any more comfortable. If he was cold moments ago, he is now drenched in cold sweat, his breath coming in short gasps.

Dizziness forces him to slow his steps, and he bites on his lip until he can feel the warm tang of copper. This binds him to the then and now better than the dark and blurry outlines around him do – and he can't help himself when he starts to feel that the walls are closing in.

With a shudder he pushes himself forward, deeper and deeper down the winding staircases. The glow of gold and emerald fades to more solemn hues, and the sprawling halls are replaced by finely carved corridors.

The path down to the crypts survived Smaug without damage. Still, statues cut from stone guard the path, foreboding and watchful. Bilbo knows little of dwarven practices surrounding their dead –but he knows of the old tombs just on the other side of the Old Forest.

And in places like this, where the silence grows to loud and in the darkness even statues seem to move, he can't help but remember the old legends. Perhaps because of that – because the fear of ancient witch kings and their magic is different from the memories that beleaguer his heart – he manages his way along the corridors, until he spies a glimmer of light.

Right between to guarding statues one door is open, and Bilbo can hear Bifur's voice. He casts one last glance down the corridor, the long line of statues – doors and their graves – vanishing into darkness, and shudders.

The chamber is unfinished, parts of the walls decorated, others not. There's a large stone coffin, but it has not been completely sealed.

And Bilbo can't help the gasp that falls from his lips.

* * *

Unbeknown to Bilbo, Dwalin and Dori encountered another kind of difficulties. When they approached Balin's tent, they found him sharing wine with Dain, involved in a leisure discussion – or at least the kind of leisure in which skilled politicians and manipulators discuss.

"You're needed," Dwalin tells his brother after having observed the customs for greeting Dain.

Balin reads the urgency from his eyes, "Can I send somebody else in my stead?"

Dwalin shakes his head.

Dain raises both hands. "I will not keep you from any urgent business," he says, jovially, "But do tell me if I can be of any assistance."

Dori, even less familiar than Dwalin and Balin with the other King, stiffens. He wets his lip; then stops himself – Dwalin and Balin will know how to handle this.

Dwalin snorts, and Balin rises from his chair with a long-suffering sigh. "While it seems I won't sleep as soon as I'd like to, there is no need for you to remain up as well," he tells Dain.

"I wouldn't mind sacrificing a few hours if there's an emergency," Dain replies, and as far as Dori can tell he is honest in this. "And I can always nod off for a few moments during negotiations. The advantage of having overenthusiastic advisors."

It draws a grin from Balin, though he declines Dain's offer again.

"Very well," Dain tells them, as he gathers his coat to leave, "But don't hesitate to send for me, no matter what the time – we're family. And in all honesty, I'm worried – even recovered, the destruction within Erebor must be devastating – I can't imagine how it must be for you, remembering what happened that day and standing here now."

* * *

Bifur has spent much of the night attempting to talk sense into Thorin. Yet the King has failed to reply, other than repeatedly asking and ordering Bifur to seal the coffin. That is when they both fell silent, with the coffin's lid not yet completely shut, and Bifur listening to Thorin breathing.

(And hoping Dori will be quick to fetch support).

Instead he first hears a gasp, and only then the soft padding of footsteps. Off all possibilities, it is Bilbo Baggins who stumbles into the crypt; chalky and unsteady. Sweat makes the long locks stick to his forehead, and in the dim light he appears almost wraith-like.

Bifur moves toward him, but Bilbo doesn't even seem to notice him. Instead the hobbit moves forward, eyes transfixed by the unfinished coffin.

"Tho…" his voice catches, and Bifur watches as Bilbo visibly pushes himself on, "Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield!"

The raised voice trembles, and Bifur thinks he can't hear Thorin breath – waiting with baited breath, like he himself does? Part of him longs to step forward and interfere before Bilbo harms himself further.

* * *

"What… just what do you think you are doing?" Bilbo asks and there's an odd note between despondency and fear in his voice. His chest is tight, and the world spins too fast. Dimly he's aware of Bifur's presence, but the room shrinks to him and that marble coffin.

"What is this supposed to be? What do you think will happen?! Why are you doing this?!" Bilbo shouts, and he can't help it if his voice sounds hysteric, "This doesn't make sense! This doesn't… doesn't solve anything! Where is this even supposed to help?"

His heart is pounding so loud he barely hears his own voice anymore. "Or do you think this is a fun experience? Are you doing this to satisfy some strange urge? Something to reconnect with that marvelous hoard of yours? Is there any gold in there, Thorin? Any other rare gemstones that are worth more than life itself?"

Maybe he is being cruel. He doesn't know anymore. Can't tell wrong from right, can't even tell where the floor ends and the walls begin. The edges of his vision are tinged in darkness, and he might be swaying on his feet.

Yet the words won't stop. "Do you do this to mock me? To show the world how this is nothing to be, to be feared? Belittle me further? I can't think of any other reason, because if you think this will, will, will earn you forgiveness or anything – it won't! Not if you spent a thousand years buried underneath dead stone will I forgive you! Maybe this is all laughable to you, but I am not going to forgive you! I will never …."

And before Bilbo can complete that sentence, the world that has already grown dark vanishes completely.

* * *

Balin, his brother and Dwalin encounter a scene of desolation.

It is not Moria, and yet Balin can't help the lurch his heart fives. Bifur is trying his hardest to push aside the heavy marble plate covering the sole coffin – and yet the entire room is utterly silent. Bifur only turns when he hears them enter, expression urgent and frightened.

"You need to-" he starts, but Dwalin's shout interrupts them. "What is he doing here?"

Balin and Dori turn – there, almost hidden against the wall, wrapped in Bifur's overcoat, rests the small form of a hobbit. Balin feels his stomach drop, while Dori hurries over. His head starts whirring, and Bifur's answer can barely come fast enough.

"He showed up, just like that, not long ago," Bifur says, "He was upset, unwell, I think, and then started to shout at Thorin. I tried to calm him down, but I don't think he heard me, and then he fainted."

"He's just unconscious," Dori confirms from where is kneeling over Bilbo.

"I don't know what he said," Bifur says, "But he was shouting at Thorin – and we need to get him out."

Balin realizes that Bifur has not moved from his station. And then, that hearing their every word, buried underneath the heavy marble, lies Thorin. Who chose this himself, for reasons Balin is afraid to examine yet (he fears he may understand).

"Let's do that," Dwalin agrees and steps past Balin.

He can only watch as Bifur and his brother employ all their strength to move the heavy piece. His own mind is ablaze and spinning. There's no answer to be found here, no indication as to why Thorin picked this – as a form of punishment. Self-imposed punishment, Balin thinks, and yet Thorin must have known that this is not conductive. Erebor is in need of a strong leader, not…

Balin stops himself. He has known Thorin for so long – perhaps he himself has become blind – Thorin has been looking for a way to atone for so long already.

"Thorin," Dwalin calls out, and he's already pulling their King from his coffin.

Thorin follows without resistance, but neither does he say a word. Or react at all. His face is horribly empty, and Balin can't help the fear spreading through his chest. As appalled as Thorin's actions have left him, seeing a once dear friend rendered like this is beyond terrifying.

It shouldn't be like this.

No matter how angry he was. No matter how foolish Thorin's action may have been – this is not the outcome Balin wanted to see.

This isn't supposed to happen.

"Come on," Dwalin coaxes, and Balin can't help but admire his brother for keeping his voice so steady, "Enough for tonight. Let's get you and Master Baggins back to your tents."

Thorin's head perks up as he follows the direction Dwalin indicated. Without making a sound, he detaches himself from Dwalin, and under everyone's watchful gaze makes his way to Bilbo's side, stumbling slightly.

There, Thorin sinks to his knees, head bowed. With baited breath, Balin takes a step forward, then hesitates.

Thorin does not move further, and Bilbo remains unconscious.

"I never meant for this to happen," Thorin mumbles, "And if I could undo it, I would do so in a heartbeat. If I could change this, I would. But now I …"

Balin presses his lips together. He can't recall Thorin ever this despondent, ever this undone – and it breaks his heart when Thorin hangs his head and finishes his sentence.

"I just don't know what to do."

_**tbc**_


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.

Warnings: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.

AN: Thank you very, very much for reading and reviewing! I try to get back to any direct questions, but feel free to poke me if I miss or overlook anything.

* * *

**The Price of Gold**

**Chapter XIII**

Balin does not attempt to find any sleep that night. After he and Dwalin have hustled Thorin back into his own tent – and he hopes nobody watched Thorin's face to0 closely – he'll need to prepare a story for the eventuality, however, and prepare the company.

And he wishes he could stop doing this. Making up lies and tales and forcing everybody to play along, even when he knows this hurts his friends.

Until the situation is more stable, he tells himself.

Tonight, though, he has to question how long Thorin will hold up under the pressure. And how much of this collapse is his own fault.

With a sigh, Balin sits down in a chair and stares at the document resting on the table. Something concerning the payment of guards – the sum is far too high, but that doesn't matter right now. For a moment Balin's eyes slide shut and he sees them.

Thorin, pale and exhausted, numbly agreeing to everything he is told. The light that was always there in the King's eyes – the one that motivated him from the moment Erebor first fell – has vanished. Balin's chest aches. He hated seeing the terror in Bilbo's eyes, but seeing Thorin dead in all but body makes him aware that this is not what he has wished for, either.

And for Thorin to pick a tomb…

It was not an attempt at suicide, this Balin is certain off. It was, probably, a horribly misguided attempt at seeking punishment for his actions. Actions that cannot be talked about, because the political landscape around them does not allow it.

What it also did was remind Balin of his friendship.

Before everything happened, Thorin was one of his closest friends. One who Thorin would go to seeking counsel – and in this, Balin has failed. It's not as if he had not been aware of the temptation of the gold.

It is not as if he hadn't been enraged himself at Bilbo stealing the Arkenstone.

Merely being in the position of not being a leader had saved him from airing his own anger that day. He does not know what, but he doubts he would have had nicer words for their hobbit.

The gold had enthralled them all, but when the sickness is mentioned all look at Thorin. Without offering help. And for all the horrors Thorin has seen, for the grief he has himself caused, he still has a gentle soul.

* * *

Bilbo comes awake abruptly, though he does not know why. His heart is pounding and he takes a moment to regain his bearings.

He is back in his tent, which is surprising, because last he remembers being elsewhere – and the floodgates open. With a jolt the memories return and Bilbo's shoulders slump. So much for thinking he's improving – what he recalls of last night is blurred by panic and hysteria.

It seems like a nightmare, now, that he hears the sounds of life from the outside. For Thorin to have…

Bilbo cuts off his own thoughts. Not because of the lingering darkness – he still dares not let his mind wander into that territory, too afraid of that it might shatter his uncertain hold on his sanity and composure – but because he understands. Without even trying to, he abruptly realizes he understands why Thorin committed this foolishness.

Bilbo knows that Thorin perhaps desires to serve punishment in order to earn forgiveness from Bilbo, his friends and himself. And just for that sake Bilbo would play along, because no matter if he can't bring himself to trust Thorin or be near him, he doesn't want him isolated and unhappy. He understands that the curse of dragon-sickness dictated much of Thorin's actions, though that does not make them easier to bear.

The scars the claustrophobic darkness carved into Bilbo's own heart won't be healed by apology or punishment, after all.

But it's not a matter of his heart any longer.

They are no longer a company of thirteen. Where Thorin is concerned, his kingdom is to consider. A kingdom Bilbo has fought for as well.

And one he will continue fighting for, Bilbo resolves with a resigned smile on his lips.

* * *

"So, what was your emergency last night?" Dain asks and falls into step next to Balin as they make their way to the council tent, "I hope it could be resolved quite fast – Dwalin did look rather concerned."

Naturally, due to their familiarity Dain is more than capable of reading Dwalin's expression.

"Not as quickly as I hoped, but the affair was settled," Balin replies. It's not an outright lie – they got Thorin out of his self-imposed punishment. Though he does not know what mindset it has left the king in.

"Well, that's good, then," Dain says cheerfully, "And my cousin will be absent today? At least that's what I heard."

Balin wonders just where Dain heard this from. But he has men guarding about every tent in the camp, and those not under his command can easily be bought off. He just has to hope Dain did not yet find out the details.

"Yes, Thorin is resting today," Balin says, "I believe it's rather well after everything."

"Indeed. I heard the journey to the mountain was everything but easy, and even after the dragon perished the troubles continued," Dain says, "One day you must tell me of your adventures. I'm hearing a lot of interesting stories and I never quite know what to believe – did you really almost get eaten by trolls?"

The spark of curiosity in Dain's eyes is honest. Balin manages a flat smile. "We did. Though I believe Ori has a rather reliable account, in case you are interested."

Dain chuckles. "Once everything is settled, there's nothing I'd rather like to do. I believe it would make for a lovely reading on our way back home."

* * *

When Gandalf walks up to Thorin's tent – he has not seen the King all morning and he would like to have a word before the daily council meeting begins – he finds the entry guarded by Bifur. And no matter what he says, he finds the dwarf unwilling to let him pass.

Before Gandalf can wonder about the abrupt change in behavior, Dori steps up and explains that Thorin took ill and will not be seeing visitors – not even wizards – today.

And no matter what Gandalf says, he is denied.

It makes him uneasy, because he can guess that something is going on. Bifur's stance is almost accusing, and Dori's expression is flat. Both their eyes betray a deeper grief, something that was not there the last time Gandalf saw them.

But they do not tell him why, and he does not know how to ask.

So eventually he turns to visit Bilbo – he has not stopped by after his last visit, simply because he was too busy. Though now he thinks he ought to have come by sooner – the hobbit may have shouted at him, but his accusations were not unfounded.

Gandalf's heart grows heavy. Indeed, he had been aware of the weakness that plagued Durin's line. And he had been standing there when Thorin had dragged Bilbo away – why did he not think to act back then?

He does not like to admit it, but he could have avoided what happened to Bilbo. And the haunted look that now greets him from Bilbo's eyes will forever remind him of that failure.

This morning, though, the horror in Bilbo's eyes is muted. The hobbit is up, though he does not look as if he slept well. He has grown thin, Gandalf realizes, and he'll probably need to start watching him closely – pneumonia and grief have already taken Bilbo's mother from the world before her time; he does not want to watch her son succumb to the same fate.

"Gandalf," the hobbit greets him with an exhausted smile, and after they have exchanged their pleasantries, he says, "I thought about that evening, and I do probably owe you an apology. You … could not have known what Thorin was about to do."

He visibly struggles with the words, and Gandalf wants to tell him that he needs no apology. Least of all from Bilbo, who is only here because one wizard once deemed it a good idea.

"However," Bilbo directs a heart-wrenching look at Gandalf, "You do know about the gold-sickness, don't you?"

With a heavy sigh, Gandalf nods. "I knew, and I apologize. Had I known what it would cause, I would have never allowed for this to happen. I did not mean to …"

Bilbo shakes his head. "Can you tell me about it?" he asks, "The sickness? I would… I would like to understand why Thorin acted the way he did."

And seeing the honest wish to understand in Bilbo's eyes, Gandalf has to clamp down on the urge to embrace the hobbit.

"Is it like the forgetfulness the old Missus Proudfoot suffers?" he asks, "She always forgets the names of her grandchildren…"

"Not quite," Gandalf replies and can't help the faint smile, "But it is also not entirely dissimilar. All dwarves, as you probably know, feel the call of the gold, so to say. Most men do as well, and even some elves can get enraptured. But it has always been rather peculiar in the line of Durin – Thorin's grandfather suffered heavily from it, and I believe it is what drove his father into madness."

"Some hobbits are greedy as well," Bilbo says, "But this is different from what I saw. That was no normal greed."

"Indeed not," Gandalf replies, "And for that reason the sickness is also known as dragon-sickness. Because it makes those under its spell act like a dragon is wont to – fixate entirely on gold."

"Can they recover from it?" Bilbo asks, and even though he tries not to let it show, Gandalf senses the barely suppressed hope behind this question.

"I do not know," he replies honestly, "Though I have seen it held in check. But perhaps you ought to ask a dwarf on that matter – or I could imagine that there might be a number of books in Erebor's library on the subject."

* * *

"Have any of you seen the King today?" Ori asks, poking his head into the princes' tent, "One of Bard's men is asking for him."

Fili and Kili shake their heads simultaneously. They have eschewed all contact with their uncle but for the sake of keeping up a public façade. The last thing Fili recalls honestly telling their uncle is "to leave" – and while it felt justified then, he can't deny a sharp pain in his heart.

"Ah well, I'll just ask Dwalin," Ori says and is gone before either of them can inquire for further news. Fili is uneasy – he'd like to know what is happening, but due to his healing leg, he is under strict instructions not to leave the tent.

The silence that falls between them is tense. Until Kili gets up and says he'll look and find out what is going on. Fili would like nothing better than to accompany him – he was always good at picking up the details his brother missed – yet the dull ache that still pounds through his leg warns him away.

* * *

Negotiations that day make no progress at all. Dain's advisors are not willing to rely on Balin to speak for the absent King, Thranduil barely even participates in the discussion – and if then it is to decline a suggestion, and Bard is rather more concerned about Thorin's health than the state of affairs. His advisors make a short attempt at tricking Balin into making promises, but he is much too familiar with these tricks to fall for them.

The only thing they all can agree on is to postpone negotiations for another day by the time lunch rolls around.

With a heavy heart, Balin goes to Thorin's tent. He knows he should not ask Thorin to play his part again, not after what happened last night – but he sees no other solution. Like Bilbo, Thorin may have to sacrifice his recovery to politics.

"Is Thorin awake?" he asks Dori who has taken up position in front of the tent.

The other dwarf shakes his head. "No, and he won't be woken – Oin was by earlier, and deemed it best for him to sleep. He used one of his teas."

Balin swallows – Oin does not use these teas lightly. "Were you there when he was awake? How is Thorin?"

Dori purses his lips. "Unwell. Not different from last night, and Oin was uncertain when he will recover."

"Thank you," he tells Dori, "Please tell me if there's any change."

This is not good, Balin thinks to himself. Without Thorin negotiations will hardly progress – and yet if Oin cannot give them a fixed date, they will have to deal.

And that is without mentioning the personal ties he wishes to repair. Even though he already knows those may have to wait – Erebor takes precedence over all: Bilbo's health, Thorin's health, and a lifelong friendship.

By now he cannot allow himself to doubt that the reclaimed kingdom is worth the price they're all paying.

* * *

"Uncle is unwell," is the news Kili returns with, "And negotiations have been stopped at lunch today."

"Do you know why?" Fili asks immediately, "And what happened to uncle."

His brother shrugs and peels off his outer coat. By now it has become cold outside, though the inside of their tent is kept warm by a well-stroked fire.

"Nobody would say," Kili answers to both questions, "I think they aren't making any headway with negotiations – I ran into one of Dain's advisors and he asked if you couldn't speak for uncle tomorrow – they all appear rather frustrated."

Fili hums in response. Speak for Thorin? He does not feel up to it, but he did not feel up for the battle either. Only in hindsight he realizes how young he and his brother are to be involved in this – and he'd rather avoid becoming even more of a pawn than he already is.

"I told him that was unlikely due to your injury," Kili continues, "Then he kept badgering me, first about uncle and then about Bilbo. What happened to them and why they were so unwell… Well, I told him that unlike many others we did have a rather exhausting journey to the mountain and had to deal with the dragon – we didn't come here with an armed host carrying provisions and everything. I think that shut him up."

"It ought to. I doubt any of them would have dared to confront a dragon," Fili says. He has – luckily – rarely been in close contact with Dain's advisors. Yet what he hears of them he does not like.

"I sometimes think they'll faint the moment I mention Smaug," Kili says with a shake of his head.

"Then we should make certain to mention him as often as possible," Fili suggests. It's an underhand move, considering how much grief Smaug brought down onto his own family – but he feels it's only fair in face of the charade Dain's advisors are putting up. "But you said something about uncle being unwell?"

He is angry, though that is no reason not to be concerned.

"Dori told me so – he and Bifur wouldn't even let me in," Kili says, "They said Oin put him to sleep – that uncle more or less worked himself to the ground. He also said … he also said that we should be nice the next time we saw him."

Fili blinks. "Why-?"

"I don't know," Kili responds unhappily, "Dori wouldn't tell me. Just that uncle is unwell and it may take him some time to recover – and we could perhaps help by just being supportive."

There's a lot of gaping holes in that story. Kili does not have the answers, and Fili hardly knows how to provide them. The only explanation is mind can come up with is that Thorin suffered from a sort of breakdown.

But how that would have occurred, he cannot imagine.

Kili shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. "I don't know what to make of it," he admits, "But Fili, I'm worried. I mean, I know he did something horrible. But he's still our uncle."

And Fili knows what he means, for there are too many fond memories for him, too. Memories that make this outcome all the harder to swallow. Were all the times Thorin made them laugh a lie? Should he forget about all the times Thorin came back late with food or a present? Can he ignore the past?

In his heart Fili knows he will love Thorin, no matter what. Even if it is only the memory left to love – but he is not quite willing to give up yet.

* * *

Visiting Erebor's library, Bilbo quickly realizes, was not a good idea. Though the presence of the books always has calmed him, the dimly lit caverns of the kingdom do not.

Stepping past the stone statues at Erebor's entrance leaves him queasy. He tells himself he managed last night – and intentionally does not recall how besides himself he was at that time. And how everything that happened then feels like a nightmare now.

Worried eyes trace his footsteps, and Dwalin's silent presence urges Bilbo to carry on. He has been weak for so long, or so it seems to himself, he does not want to feel so anymore.

And Dwalin, thankfully, does not comment if he's swaying on his feet as he stumbles along.

When the corridors grow smaller and darker for a moment he thinks he will have to turn back. His heart his pounding rapidly, and the world spins too fast – but it passes, and he pushes himself forward, ignoring the uproar in his head.

If he begins to feel like he did last night, he will not pay it any mind.

Then, finally, finally, he is through the door and within the library. Dwalin promises to be waiting outside – "just call for me" he tells Bilbo, with unveiled concern in his eyes.

Bilbo tries his best to nod an affirmative – he knows he looks pitiable these days. The smell of old paper, though, for a moment at least draws him out of his miserable situation. Erebor's library is warm – the fires have been lit, and much of the dust has already been cleaned.

Bilbo thinks he could hide here, among the books, and just ignore the outside world.

Until a noise startles him out of his contemplations.

"Master Baggins!" Ori exclaims, hurrying over, while Bilbo leans against a wall to steady himself. His heart is in his throat, and he hates how faint he feels at such a small scare.

"Are you quite alright?" the young dwarf inquires, taking in his pallor.

Bilbo forces a smile. "It's nothing. Just… just a short spell. I'll be right as rain in a moment."

He hopes Ori can't tell that he still feels dizzy when he pushes himself away from the wall after a moment. To distract him, Bilbo offers his impression of the library – and Ori is happy to tell him that he is currently taking care of it, because it's better than sitting around useless, and he has always loved books, and who knows if he'll have the same kind of access once everybody has settled.

"It's just that Erebor's library is supposed to be one of the best in all of Middle Earth," Ori tells him, "Some books only survive here – and some were never allowed to be copied elsewhere. I know that there's probably a reason in a number of cases, but I'm not after the books outlining Erebor's mining system – the library stores ancient diaries and letters."

Bilbo feels himself beginning to warm up in face of Ori's enthusiasm. It's with a heavy heart that he eventually asks, "Would you know if there are some accounts on the dragon sickness?"

Instantly, Ori's face falls. He swallows heavily. "I, I should think so," he says, "I'll see if I can find you some…"

Ori makes it three steps, before he turns around. His eyes are red-rimmed. "I'm so sorry, Master Baggins. I read about it, I mean, and still… I don't know how it happened, but suddenly all of us were mad – I'm sorry we left you all alone then. We should have known better…"

He shakes his head to himself, and Bilbo takes a deep breath.

"I understand that now," Bilbo tells him. Because if Ori was under the spell as well, he barely remembers it – and it hardly seems to matter, when compared to what Thorin did to him, "Though I would like to understand it a little better. Do you know if there's a difference between gold-sickness and dragon-sickness?"

Ori gathers himself. "Not today – with no more dragons around, the name is used interchangeably with gold-sickness. Historically though, there used to be a difference. Dragon-sickness was only used among rulers and aristocracy – it often caused them to go mad – I think because they already possessed a lot of riches that exacerbated it. Gold-sickness could strike everyone – you saw how it works."

Bilbo nods along. He thinks Thorin may have suffered from dragon-sickness – the light in Thorin's eyes then was not sane. He shivers. "Are there any accounts on it? Or tales on whether those affected could recover?"

"Concerning gold-sickness there are several," Ori replies, "There's a volume in the common tongue – it's a history, but it holds a number of these accounts. And on the dragon-sickness… there is no clear account. Though I do recall the wife of Thrain I was afflicted and I believe she did not grow mad."

Ori is happy to provide the books.

Bilbo does not know if the knowledge makes him feel happier. Gold-sickness, it turns out, can commonly be subdued by family and friends – the books call it "anchoring". However, the accounts concerning Thrain I's wife – who remains unnamed in all accounts – are too vague to be comforting. The amount of bloodshed detailed in all other accounts – those that tell of the chaos the dragon-sickness has wrought – and Bilbo knows he should stop reading but can't – makes him feel faint.

Unsurprisingly, this night he dreams of being murdered by Thorin.

* * *

The next morning brings a biting, cold wind from the north. Dwarves do not mind the cold, and the elves are prepared, but the men begin to shiver. There is not much activity in camp as Balin leaves his tent shortly after dawn.

His first stop this morning is Thorin's tent. Not the large royal one that now serves as Bilbo's quarters, but a smaller, more inconspicuous one near the healers' tents. Bifur is guarding it – the only clue for any outsider that a member of the company rests inside.

Bifur follows him inside – apparently Oin is asleep for the time being.

As is Thorin.

Even in sleep their King appears stressed. The lines on his face have not smoothed out, and Balin can't help but sigh. He would have granted Thorin the night's respite from the depth of his heart – Thorin's actions may have been gruesome, but it is not as if the rest of their company had not committed their own mistakes.

"Oin said he will probably not wake today," Bifur informs him.

Balin nods. Another day of failed negotiations – but that cannot be helped. Thorin needs to recover, and Fili is not recovered, or prepared, enough to step up and replace him. Especially not when faced with folk that surrounds Dain or Thranduil's unblinking stare.

Another sharp gust of wind races through the camp, and tears at the tents and banners. Balin casts a glance to the covered skies overhead. The first snows will come soon.

_**tbc**_


End file.
